


Hard Rock

by singtome



Series: Hard Rock [1]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Utopia, Background Minho/Gally, Background Relationships, Cats, Friends to Lovers, Gratutious pastel vibes, M/M, Mashup of Decades, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Summer Romance, Thomas makes questionable decisions for 80k, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vintage Futurism, cloning, space aesthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 09:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 80,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singtome/pseuds/singtome
Summary: It’s a strange feeling indeed to know that you are living inside another person’s body.The echo is not kind, not ever, and this is one thing in his life that Thomas refuses to intentionally provoke.(Or: Hundreds of years later the human race has moved on. Thomas wants more than anything to make it through the summer, but a feeling beneath his skin gravitates him towards Newt - it is other worldly, all consuming, and possibly not entirely his own.)





	1. The Great Planet

**Author's Note:**

> This series has been a labour of love (and many frustrations) over the last year. In saying this, this (and at the risk of getting cheesy) there is no way that I would have made it as far as I have with this fic if not for a handful of amazing people. 
> 
> First off, I want to say a big thank you to my love [Jamie](http://00250.tumblr.com/) who is endlessly supportive and enthusiastic, and whom I am so grateful for <3,[Dreams](http://taste0fdreams.tumblr.com/) and [Snick](https://persnickett.tumblr.com/), who are also endlessly enthusiastic and supportive and who feed by ego for days, and whom I also love deeply. And, last but not least, [Amanda](https://sleeplessinaltissia.tumblr.com/) bb you've probably had to listen to me complain about this monster the most, and for that I am forever greatful. Thank you for letting me blather on and rant about tmr to you at all hours lol ily.
> 
> Also, I should mention that the formatting got messed up during posting so apologies if any spacing or grammar looks a little strange.

_ I assure you _

_ that when this life ends _

_ and the dust settles _

_ I will find you _

_ in the next – R.H. Sin. _

When his phone rings for the third time in fifteen minutes, Thomas is hunched over the centre console, sweat beading on his brow and screwdriver between his teeth, desperately trying to hot-wire his dad’s car. 

_ Trying _ is the keyword here, as he’s been at it for a whole twenty-two minutes and all it is that he has managed to do is create a few sparks and make himself bleed a couple times. Thomas groans over the low thrum of vibration on the leather seat and waits for it to stop. 

Once it does, Thomas sighs around the plastic end of the screwdriver and works to align the wires one more time – slowly, _ slowly_, eyes narrowing in concentration, and only just pinching this time to minimise electrocution damage and, oh! He might just have it. Just a little bit more, and – 

The phone rings again and Thomas throws the screwdriver against the driver side door with an outraged shout. He reaches over and grabs his phone in a tight fist, not even bothering to glance at the name before answering, putting the device on speaker and instantly getting back to work. 

“What?” he bites. 

Minho’s voice sounds a tad panicked on the other end, however largely overshadowed by outrageous frustration – at Thomas, always at Thomas. “Dude,” he says, “Where are you? You were supposed to be here half an hour ago!”

Thomas nods even though he knows Minho can’t see him. “Uh huh,” he mumbles, aligning the wires again and pre-maturely flinching at the phantom burns on his fingers, “Working on it.”

“What do you mean _ working on it?_”

Thomas rolls his eyes, “I mean I’ll get there as soon as I can get the car started.” 

“You can’t get it started?” Minho shouts so that his voice echoes around the quiet of the car. It thrumbs inside Thomas’ brain and jabs at his nicely forming headache. “Is the engine busted?”

He doesn’t answer. Minho continues, “Wait, you have the keys, don’t you?” 

Thomas twists the ends of the two red wires again, and Minho takes his silence as an answer. “Well then what are you doing? Hotwiring the car?”

He picks up the brows wires and takes a deep breath as he listens to Minho have a conversation with himself. “You’re hotwiring the fucking car!” his friend shouts, his voice blasting in static outrage. It jabs hot needles into the back of Thomas’ eyes, edging on the growing headache. “Dude, are you nuts? Your old man’s going kill you! You said you knew where he kept the keys.”

Thomas lets his head thump against the bottom of the dashboard. “I said I _thought_ I knew where he kept the keys. He must have moved them.”

The force of Minho’s sigh comes through as loud interference. “Okay, well hurry it up. This happens once every century, Thomas! I swear if you miss this, I will –”

“I’ll be there!”

He imagines Minho running his hand through his hair irritably like he always does. In the background, Thomas hears a girl squeal, followed by a guy’s laugh and more yelling. Someone swears. Minho says, “Why didn’t you just get Newt to pick you up?”

Thomas nearly electrocutes himself. 

There are not enough words in the entire universe to truly articulate how much of a galactically awful idea that is. 

Newt, who has been his best friend for years. Newt, with the messy hair, and sharp grin and even sharper eyes. Newt, who is nineteen and doesn’t get grounded for sneaking out past curfew to smoke weed on a private beach with his friends, and have to be picked up at the police station by angry and disappointed parents a couple hours later (in their defence, there were no signs to indicate that the beach was, in fact, private, so it’s the owner’s fault, really). 

Newt, who recently bought a sleek black motorcycle and instantaneously became the sole focus of every single one of Thomas’ wet dreams from that day on, because that’s just how life works out. Said motorcycle is what Thomas can only imagine he would be picked up with if Minho were to send Newt. This meant that Thomas would have to spend twenty whole minutes on the back of it wrapped around Newt like a shitty birthday present, pressed flush up against him where Newt could feel every bump and ridge, and – 

Yeah. He’d rather electrocute himself. It would be a far more merciful death than throwing himself into traffic out of mortification. 

Cheeks red, Thomas sticks the screwdriver back in his mouth and mumbles, “I can do this. I just need some _ quiet_.” 

Minho gets the hint, “Fine, nerd. See you soon. Get a move on!” 

The call cuts off and Thomas sighs in relief. He shakes himself and stares at the wires. He can do this, just one more …

The wires spark and the engine roars to life, the sound of it making him start. The screwdriver falls out of his mouth as Thomas laughs triumphantly. He wastes no time in taping the wires up, replacing the panel and lifting himself up on the seat. Back cracking from the prolonged position and, taking a deep breath, Thomas backs out of the driveway as fast as he dares, barely missing the palm tree that stands tall beside their mailbox. 

Parking on the lookout mountain is, as expected, terrible. Thomas ends up having to dump the car half a mile away – it sits between an old bug and a VW decked out to the high heavens in a floral explosion that would make even Sonya cry – and jogs the rest of the way up the trail to the picnic point Minho sent him directions to. It’s supposedly secluded, away from the bomb cluster of people setting up on the mountain for The Best View. Thomas will believe it when he sees it. 

It looks as if everyone and their dogs are out on the mountain tonight to watch the meteor shower. It is the astronomical event of the century, the day engineers from Sectors C through to Sector G have been gearing up for all year. His science teacher covered the event in class; the asteroid belt between them and Mars will lean closer toward their side than it has in decades. The meteors will react with the atmosphere and reflect off the ice to create an aroura that will turn the sky into an oil spill of colours. 

Thomas is extremely excited. It’s going to be amazing. 

If he can make it up the mountain. 

The lookout point Minho has sent him is still half a mile away, so Thomas takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders, and begins climbing. After fifteen – give or take twenty – minutes of trudging up the winding dirt path, receiving a number of questioning look from many passersby, the distinct sound of music and familiar laughter finally tickles his ears. 

The only vehicle parked up ahead is a sleek black motorcycle leaning beside a cooler, with a leather jacket hanging off one of the handlebars. Thomas’ heart, beating impressively from the half-mile walk up, somehow manages to beat a little faster at the sight of it. Part of him – the part that knows his legs and abdomen will be very angry with him tomorrow – wishes he had called and gotten Newt to pick him up, but the other half – the half that checks his heartbeat and steadily rising blood pressure – thanks Past Thomas for the foresight. 

No one comes into view right away, but after a flash of light catches in the corner of Thomas’ vision, a blonde head appears soon after. 

Sonya is spinning because she is always spinning, because if a girl like Sonya wasn’t constantly happy and high on energy then the whole world might as well tilt off its axis. Her laughter floats down the hill like bubbles set free from a star-shaped blower, and her earrings, thick hoops made of reflective chrome, sparks silver light over the clearing around them. 

She is conveniently the first to notice Thomas arrive, as she stops at the tail end of her spin with a flourish, arms protruding out from her slight body like a contemporary ballerina, her messy ponytail swishing behind her. 

“Thomas!” she calls, arms now moving toward him as if she fully expects Thomas to meet her embrace from ten feet away. “You’re here, finally!”

Thomas smiles and continues on to meet Sonya. 

Sonya turns to look behind her as Thomas comes within arms distance. She says, “Guys, Thomas is here,” right before throwing her arms around Thomas’ neck and hanging off him like a monkey that has lost the mobility of her lower body. 

Thomas laughs to himself and hugs her back as the others notice, and begin to shout and cheer with a variance of enthusiasm. Sonya is sweet, she’s funny, she’s ridiculously beautiful, and she’s a little nuts, just how Thomas likes them. 

Except he doesn’t like Sonya. Not like that.

(A part of him wishes he did.) 

“Where’s your brother?” Thomas finds himself asking, arms around her waist, feigning innocent curiosity. Unneeded; Newt is his very best friend. 

Sonya unthreads her fingers from the back of Thomas’ neck to hook one thumb over her shoulder. “He went over there somewhere with Minho,” she says, motioning to the trees. Thomas nods, following the direction with his eyes. “You could probably catch up to them, I don’t think they went far.”

For some reason, the thought turns him off. Thomas says, “It’s cool. I’ll just go say hi to everyone.” 

Sonya shrugs, “’Kay. But if you change your mind and want to jump out from behind a tree and scare them shitless, call me.” 

“Sure,” Thomas laughs, and untangles his arms from around Sonya’s waist to go join the others, nodding to Harriet as he passes. 

Various people that Thomas recognises but does not know personally clap him on the shoulder as he walks past, assumingly invited by either Ben or Gally. Or Minho, who tends to know a lot of people at random. Most of them go to their school, he thinks, or attend apprenticeships. 

Teresa, Thomas notices when he approaches her, looks as disappointed with him as usual. She leans up against a tree smoking, her straightened black hair flowing in the slight breeze, and her blue eyes are narrowed in Thomas’ direction. As soon as he meets her, Teresa drops the cigarette and stomps it out with her platform boot, before holding her hand out expectantly. 

“Let me see,” she says before Thomas has the chance to say hello. 

Thomas gives her his palm obediently. Teresa looks it over thoughtfully, and Thomas almost manages not to wince when she presses down on the tips of his fingers, making him hiss. 

Thomas snatches his hand back, offended. 

“Shit,” she says, “I thought Minho was joking.” 

“Hello to you, too.”

“Sorry, hi,” Teresa says, shaking her head, “How are you? What the hell?”

Thomas shrugs. “I couldn’t find the keys. Dad must have hidden them somewhere new.”

Theresa nods, “Or took them with him. Anyway, you’re here now, and you didn’t crash on the way over, so that’s all that matters. Right on time, too.”

A new voice chimes in behind them. “Come on, Teresa, you know he always has to make an entrance.”

Thomas turns to find Newt standing there, arms crossed and looking self-satisfied, and Thomas’ stomach involuntarily does a flip. Newt looks good tonight – not that Thomas had any doubts for the contrary – and it is both gallingly appreciated and inexplicably uncouth. You can’t really look at Newt full-on, Thomas doesn’t think, not unless you (Thomas, in particular, this is about him) wish to shrivel up into an invisible turtle shell and remain there until he is gone, and it is safe to come out again. 

It’s very unfair. 

(Thomas looks anyway, despite the risks.)

“I do not make entrances,” Thomas says, rolling his eyes. 

Newt pinches his thumb and index finger together. “A little bit,” he says, “Most of the time.” 

Thomas scoffs and reaches forward to shove Newt’s shoulder. His arms uncross, and his face relaxes out of it’s sly, teasing fixture into something more casual. 

“Hi,” Newt says, a soft laugh curling around the vowel, “We were worried you weren’t going to make it.” 

“Hey,” Thomas says back, “Minho likes to exaggerate. I had plenty of time.” Newt makes a face, humming. Thomas kicks him in the shin, without malice. Newt kicks him back. “Where is Minho?” Thomas asks, looking around the small clearing to see if he can spot their friend. He finds Brenda setting up some fold-up chairs to the left, now with the help of Harriet and Sonya. To the left Gally, Frypan, and Ben sit around in a circle with a few others. 

“Fashionably on time,” Newt shrugs, opting to compromise. “He’s trying to see if the view is better through the trees, I don’t know why. I keep telling him it’s fine here. He’s worried about missing it.” 

Thomas looks up, eyes instinctively searching out the silver-blue star in the sky. He finds it immediately, settled between one more and the other, shining as bright as ever. The sun never gave up on it, it’s just that everything else did. 

Thomas points it out. “It’s right there.”

“Ah,” Newt says, following with his eyes. 

“How do you find it so quick?” Teresa asks, coming to stand beside them, and with a start, Thomas realises he had forgotten she was there. 

Thomas shrugs, burying his hands in his pocket. “It’s always on the left,” he says. 

“Depends on what side of the Sector you’re on,” Teresa replies. “I’ll go drag Minho back. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know you’re here.”

Right on queue Sonya fizzles into view, moving to stand next to her brother with a bump to the hip which dislodges him some, making him swear. She elbows him again as if the first didn’t pack enough of a punch. 

“Thomas walked all the way up,” Sonya says, “Why didn’t go pick him up half way?”

Newt looks affronted, “I would have – would have,” he says, turning to strike a pointed glare at Thomas, “If he’d bothered to tell me he was here –”

Thomas plays it cool. “I like the walk. It’s,” he pauses. “Peaceful.” 

“Leg day,” Sonya supplies, helpfully. 

Newt turns to look at his sister, “Liz, Thomas is here now. Thanks for the heads up, but you’ve exceeded your usefulness.”

Sonya rolls her eyes. “Alright, damn, I get the hint.” She holds her hand out for Teresa, fingers wiggling expectantly and showing off her chipped rainbow nails, “Come on, let’s go get a drink.”

She bumps Newt, again, and Teresa does the same for Thomas on the way past. The act makes him stumble closer to Newt, and he catches the scent of Newt’s spicy cologne drifting off the collar of his shirt. Thomas quickly shuffles back. 

“So what is he doing, exactly?” Thomas asks, hands still in his pockets. 

Newt sighs and glances dejectedly toward the edge of the surrounding woods. “Who knows,” he says, “But we should probably go get him.” 

After a minute Thomas and Newt manage to locate Minho not too far past the clearing. He is knelt beside a seemly ordinary tree and staring at something on the ground, shoulders hunched to lean in closer. 

Newt goes to shout right before Thomas stops him with a hand on his wrist, touching his finger to his lips. Newt gets the hint and remains quiet, and Thomas hastily searchers their immediate surroundings. Settling on a small pebble, Thomas scoops it up, tossing it trice in the air before aiming and launching it off. The pebble lands smack in between Minho’s shoulders, bouncing in the air upon impact. Minho yelps and rocks forward. Thomas and Newt crack and begin to laugh. 

Minho’s glare in response isn’t exactly angry, but potentially threatening. 

“Your aim is shit,” Minho says, reaching behind to try and reach the sore spot. 

“Actually,” Thomas says, “that was exactly where I was going for.”

“Asshole,” Minho says, mouth curling in displeasure. It is gone in a flash, as he seems to remember what he had been doing before rudely interrupted, and waves a hand at Thomas and Newt, “Hey, come have a look at this.” 

Curiously, they step closer, coming to hover over Minho crouched on the forest floor and blink down at the sight in the grass. 

“What is it?” Newt asks, and Thomas can hear the frown in his voice as he slowly lowers himself to kneel beside their friend. Thomas mirrors him a second later.

Minho shrugs, the motion jostling Thomas’ shoulder, “No idea. But they’re cool.”

Thomas squints and leans closer, bracing a hand on the coarse grass and twigs. “Some kind of marble?” he says, and reaches to pluck one of the small round objects from the dozen-or-so cluster of them on the ground. 

“Whoa, don’t –” Newt begins, “Don’t _ touch_ it, you don’t know what they are.”

Thomas feels unconcerned, eyes glued to the sphere as he turns it slowly between his fingers. It is smaller than his palm but a little bigger than a regular marble. About the size of a paperweight he’d find in his dad’s office, he thinks, smooth but textured at the same time. It isn’t exactly bright but it is colourful, glowing an iridescent hue that is both calming and intriguing to watch; hypnotising. The colours move slowly in the sphere’s core, like liquid trapped inside a crystal. 

“It’s fine,” Thomas says, eventually, bringing it up to the fading light. 

“It kind of looks like the ice, doesn’t it?” Minho says, “That’s what I thought when I first saw them.”

“A little,” Newt says, leaning in closer until he is almost doubled over to look at them. Eventually, swearing, and glancing over briefly to Thomas as if to confirm he hasn’t begun to change colour along with them, picks one up. 

“The colours are similar.” 

“Doesn’t feel like ice,” Thomas says. 

Minho says, “Crystals?” 

“Maybe …” Newt answers, voice now laced with curiosity, also. “They’re so perfectly round. Where did they come from?”

“Who knows. Anyway,” Minho begins, breaking the spell by standing and dusting dirt off the knees of his jeans, “This was fun, but we should be getting back. It’s almost time and I don’t want to miss this!” 

Thomas sighs, “Yeah, we know. Eighty years.” 

“Eighty years,” Minho agrees, “Hey, by the way. You didn’t crash in a ditch on the way over. _Fuck_. I owe Brenda a twenty.” 

“Love you, too,” Thomas scoffs, and stands. Newt rises with his sphere still in his hands. 

Thomas says, “Do you think we can keep these?” 

Newt merely shrugs and clinks his sphere against Thomas’ where it makes a high, bell-like chime, before slipping it into his pocket. It bulges awkwardly against his hip. Thomas does the same, and they follow a complaining Minho the short distance back to the clearing. 

They exit just as Sonya is waving furiously and calling out to them, and Thomas knows immediately that it is starting. Everyone has sprung into action, gathering around the small space they have created as a “viewing platform”, either in a chair or lounging on the soft grassy floor. Thomas’ palms tingle with excitement. 

“Come on,” Newt says, taking his elbow, and before Thomas knows it he is being pulled toward the viewing spot, and falling on to the floor with Newt. 

It begins slowly, one small meteor shooting across the sky almost like a test shot, before two more appear, and then five and ten and before any of them know it the gradient sky is filled with hundreds of white and gold lights racing each other to the other side of the solar system. Some get so close that for a moment Thomas feels a spike of fear in his chest that they will crash into them, or Ganymede off to the side. 

It never happens, but what does happen is explosive. It only takes one rock to interact with their sector’s dome, bouncing off it to create a ripple effect. Everyone gasps – in excitement, wonder, and the allusion of danger – as waves reverberate silently in the sky above them, and then: colour. 

Everywhere; explosions of pink and orange first, and then green, blue, yellow, purple lights dance around the comets as they make their way across the sky. They bend and shift and melt together to create a glittering, iridescent spectrum filled with colours Thomas has never seen before in his life. Ganymede shines blue and green and, further away, Europa has turned purple. The dome shifts and the illusion thins, just for a moment, for the Great Planet’s colossal shape to appear. It is as if the entire sector shakes in an uproar of exhilaration. Thomas wonders if his parents are watching this in Sector G, right now. 

His eyes, as usual, seek out that one star in the distance and is pleased when he spots it just as easily as usual. Thomas swings his arms around Minho and Newt’s shoulders and brings them in closer, using the one around Newt’s neck to point. 

“Look,” he says, “There it is. It’s turned blue.”

It has. The Old Planet, or Earth, as it was formerly called, is now glowing a bright blue. It’s almost as if it is alive again. 

Minho whistles, head nodding in appreciation. Newt shifts and settles closer. 

Behind him, Thomas feels arms come to circle his neck and silky hair tickle his cheek. Thomas cranes his neck to see Teresa smiling at him. 

“Is it everything you dreamed of?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Minho, Newt, and Sonya, who has flopped down beside her brother, and answer for him. Thomas just laughs, giddy. 

It ends almost as quickly as it began. The lights fade away as the final meteor makes it journey across the sky, the dome shifts back to normal and leaving it the usual deep blue. Unlike regular meteor showers this particular one is best viewed at twilight, so taking this into consideration the sector’s engineers delayed sunset. This ultimately means a shorter night and day, but Thomas feels as if it is worth it. 

Since he was the last to arrive Thomas is goaded into helping pack up all the chairs and coolers, which is fair enough, and stacking them in the back of Sonya’s Volkswagen. Newt somehow convinces Thomas to let him give him a ride back down the mountain, and Thomas, after a minute of thinking up possible ways to say no and coming up short, agrees. Minho gives him a sideways glance when he swings his leg over the gently rumbling machine and grips the leather on Newt’s shoulders for dear life. 

It doesn’t end in destruction and mortification – thank goodness, it would have really put a damper on the night – and Thomas makes it back to his car with no expert casualties besides Newt’s hair tickling his nose as they drive down the mountain. 

Newt watches him lean against his car with wobbly legs. “Are you coming by Brenda’s for a bit?” Newt asks, pressing his forearms against the handlebars. 

Thomas considers it. Brenda’s house is only a block away from his, so Thomas could handle walking home from there, or he could go home and deal with Minho calling him lame and anti-social. Or he could go to Brenda’s and have a few drinks out on her patio as usual, and try to act normal around his best friend of more than ten years. Or he could _ go home_. 

Thomas smiles, and says, “Yeah, for a short while,” and suddenly remembers the awkward bulge of the sphere in his pocket as Newt smiles, salutes him, and drives away, digging into his skin. 

– 

Thomas wakes to bright, white sunlight through unfiltered curtains, and a pounding headache. He is hit with the sudden blaring realisation that morning has come too early, and with a sigh, a groan, and a moan, Thomas allows his face to press back into the pillow he had previously been suffocating himself with and remembers – oh yeah. Shorter night. And ultimately a shorter day. The events of the night prior are fuzzy and fragmented in his memory, but the last is of him and Teresa hobbling home together in the middle of the street before they parted ways and hobbled some more into their respective houses opposite each other. 

After that, he toppled onto the couch and fell asleep immediately, and then nothing. And then now, _reality_. 

His head hurts, and his back feels as if it has no less than twelve cricks in it. Maybe he can goad Calypso into sitting on him later and digging her paws into the muscles of his back. She’d probably enjoy it is she thought she was causing him pain. 

Opting to not waste any more daylight, Thomas tears himself from the warm leather of the couch and drags his aching body into the kitchen for some anti-hangover tablets, only bumping into a wall once, and smacking his hip against the end of the counter twice. Thomas takes two pills, just to be safe, and pours himself a glass of water and hops up on the counter to wait for the effects to kick in. Sure enough his head feels clearer and his eyes are sharper after two minutes, and Thomas is able to breathe easier. 

On the fridge and blinking at him enthusiastically from the in-built tablet is a sun with a smile. Thomas hates that one; the eyes always follow him around the room. Which is why, of course, his mother chose it. The sun beams at him cheerfully and says, in a too-high voice, that it hopes he is well this morning. Thomas just as cheerfully flips it off. The little sun bristles a moment before sticking its tongue out at Thomas and blowing an obnoxiously loud raspberry before turning into a tornado and disappearing. In its place is the list his mother left behind for him, and Thomas instinctively groans. 

Most parents, before a three-week long business trip, leave notes like _ Clean the house! _ and _ Feed the cats! _ and _ Eat something other than microwave pasta! _ and, while those are very much on there, Thomas – because his mother is a special kind of woman – has to deal with _ Find a new colour for the living room wall! _

Which isn’t bad, except Thomas knows full well if he picks the wrong colour she will be miffed, and she hadn’t even told him which colours she was leaning towards before they left. Maybe she has a box of swatches in her office, he thinks. Either way, he’ll have to eventually settle on something before they return, so it can be ready for Thomas’ 18th birthday party that they’re throwing for him even though he said he would rather not make a fuss, and Thomas isn’t exactly someone who is adept in the art of making decisions. 

Well. Not good ones, at least. 

The first point on the list is, _ Have breakfast. If you don’t, I’ll have Calypso eat you. _

There really is no arguing that. Thomas pours himself a bowl of cereal and squints lazily at point number 2, which does in fact read _ Please remember to feed the cats this time _, because Thomas forgot once when he was fifteen, and his mom holds the record for longest grudges ever held across the four moons. 

After he is done he pushes the button for the cats to get their food and trudges upstairs for a shower. When he is out, he searches for his phone for a solid ten minutes before finding it wedged between the sofa cushions, and opens it to see three messages, one each from Newt, Minho, and Teresa. 

Minho’s is simply a handful of poop emojis because he is a classy man, the message from Teresa is some garbled version of what he assumes is _ Sleep well _, and from Newt: _I hope you feel as shit this morning as I do. _

Thomas smiles, and texts back, _Worse_. 

The reply comes within seconds. Newt sends a thumbs up and, _Liz says you have work tonight? _

Thomas groans. _Shit_. He’d forgotten about that. He wonders if he could call in sick, or if his boss will just tell him to take a pill or drink some syrup and get over it. Maybe he could blame it on his echo symptoms acting up, which wouldn’t be a complete lie.

Thomas coughs, and replies, _ Unfortunately. Closing shift. Do you think I could fake sick? _

Newt replies, _ You’re an awful liar, so I doubt it. _ Thomas raises an eyebrow at that. _ But if you need to, I could always back you up. Why? Have a hot date planned? _

Thomas types, _ Is that an offer? _ erases it, and says instead, _Thanks, I’ll pass. Need the money, anyway. _

Newt says, _ Planning on buying your dad a new car battery after you fry it? _

_ Ha ha, _Thomas texts, and puts his phone away. Speaking of cars, his own is still parked outside Brenda’s house. 

Thomas takes a deep breath – slowly, in and out, like his doctor has been telling him to do to counter the symptoms – and opts to get some coffee and deal with it later. 

Coffee in hand and cats fed (Barnacle is up in his room, and he hasn’t seen Calypso all morning) Thomas collapses back on the couch he slept on last night and flicks on the TV. A news report plays on screen as a woman with slicked-back hair and purple lipstick rattles off current events. It begins easy enough by talking about last night’s meteor shower and how most of the population across all four sectors were out to watch it. 

The woman’s voice turns slightly more uplifting as she begins to talk about Monica and James Kelly, the four moons’ sweethearts, have apparently just become the first generation 3 couple to carry a baby through to their final trimester. 

They bring up a recent interview with the couple themselves. 

“We wanted to make sure from the very get go, when we decided to try this, that we had all the information,” Monica is saying, hands lovingly resting on her swollen belly. “And, you know, it was important to us – as I’m sure it’s important to many others – that we gave this our very best shot.” 

Thomas raises his mug to them and takes a sip. He remembers the two of them from when they were briefly in the same school, seniors when Thomas was a sophomore. They were just as dogmatic back then. 

“At any point,” the interviewer asks, “did you worry about the side effects, or did any possible health concerns come up during the process?”

“Of course,” James says, his bleached white hair slicked over his forehead. “The concerns were a huge defining factor of whether or not we went through with this, but, you know, Monica and I talked it over for a long time, and in the end we decided that this was the best route. For us, and for every other parent across the four moons. To give them hope. We just have so much to thank WCKD2 and the Donation Centre for their help and guidance during this process.”

Thomas lets his mug rest on his lap, cooling fast. 

“And how would you describe the experience working with WCKD2 and the Donation centre personally?” 

“Oh,” Monica laughs, a titter most internet blogs describe as _charming_, “At first it was a little scary, not gonna lie. But they were so nice and encouraging, and they loved how committed we were to this. Honestly, there is no higher praise that I can give to them. I – we are just so thankful for everything they’ve done for us and, look!” Monica gestures to her stomach, “There’s a baby in here!” 

She, her husband and the interviewer all laugh, and Thomas zones out for the remainder. He goes on to talk a little about how other Gen 3ers are still preferring to go through the Donation centre for offspring, and many aren’t even considering this option at all. The couple gives some basic answers about how they get it but encourage everyone to look at their experience and seriously consider going the route of natural procreation. 

Generation 3, Thomas’ generation, is supposedly the first generations since the original humans to be able to conceive and procreate with their bodies alone. So far, the first three cases have ended with the mother unable to bring a child to term, and the third made it all the way to her second trimester before sadly losing it. Monica and James are currently the celebrities of Callisto – and by extension, the four moons – for their success. 

As for generation 2, his parent’s generation, the only option they had was to go through the Donation centre in the heart of the WCKD2 preservation headquarters. With every new generation, there are newer advances in technology and science. Different things were done to Thomas during his nine-month incubation at the centre than were done to his parents during theirs. Subtle changes in DNA and cellular production that are supposedly more similar to the original humans’ (but better, more advanced, of course) and one of those, supposedly, was the ability to conceive. 

Gen 3ers are just now old enough to test if these changes worked, and, unfortunately, there had not been much luck. Until now. 

As if reading his thoughts, Thomas’ phone chimes with a reminder for an appointment with his doctor tomorrow morning, to check on him and his echo symptoms. More specifically the hard time he is having with them. They vary from person to person, but Thomas is apparently one of the extreme cases. 

It happens to everyone, the symptoms, when one reaches the age of their Donor. Symptoms include dramatic mood swings, changes in diet and appetite and, in extreme cases like Thomas’, _feelings_. Emotions that don’t quite belong to him, but do. From a previous version of himself, the one that existed on the Old Planet, the one who donated his DNA for the preservation of humankind. 

They unofficially call it an echo, for lack of better term, and to this day scientists have not been able to figure out why it happens, or how to stop it. 

Thomas has spent a handful of time in front of the mirror, stripped naked, examining the many marks on his body. One freckle on his left shoulder hurts when he presses down like it is bruised, and another over his ribs makes his vision swirl, and his hearing turns fuzzy.

Then there are his lungs. He’s spent so many hours watching his chest rise and fall as he breathes. It’s an irrational fear, one that Thomas isn’t sure is a factor of the echo or if it’s just simply Thomas, as he has carried this around with him most of his life. 

He fears that one day his lungs will stop working, or if he isn’t constantly checking they will fail on him. His doctor says it’s just your average case of anxiety, but something in Thomas’ disagrees. 

Thomas turns off the TV and sets his coffee on the table, now cold. 

With hours before work and nothing to do, Thomas decides to raid his mother’s office for swatches. He finds absolutely none, which is typical, but does manage to locate some post-it notes bookmarking many pages in a home improvement catalogue. What he finds is a mixture of warm and cool tones don’t really help much at all, however now he knows she is leaning towards something brighter rather than pale. Bold. Sure, Thomas can be bold.

Paint bombs have already been set in the corners of the designated wall. It is large, climbing up to the second story, and thirty feet wide. Some tape has been stuck down along the borders of the stone fireplace so the paint knows where to stop. Thomas pulls the laptop onto his knees and thinks. 

A full ten minutes of thinking goes by, during which he becomes distracted with the thought of food and decides he really wants some donuts, and that maybe he can convince Newt to come over and bring him some and that, in itself, will give Thomas three things; carbs, sugar, and Newt. He settles on a burnt orange shade called _ Golden Nugget, _sends it to the paint bombs, and presses enter at the exact moment that something small and dark appears in the corner of his eye. 

Too late his thumb lands on the button, and Thomas throws the laptop aside, shouting, “No, wait!” half a second before the bombs go off, and colour spreads up the previously white wall like water, perfectly engulfing it within seconds. 

For a second it all looks fine, and Thomas thinks he’s imagined it. But then a section of the wall moves out of the way to reveal the orange-on-white outline of a small cat. The responding begrudged mewl comes along with it, and Thomas groans. 

“Shit. _ Barnacle _ ,” he sighs, walking toward the small animal with his arms outstretched, and scooping her up in them. One full half of her shiny black coat is bright _ Golden Nugget _ orange, the perfect match to her eyes which are searing into Thomas while she mewls at him as if this is all his fault. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he tells her, “You’re the one always sneaking around, how was I supposed to see you?” His cat continues to stare at him expectantly, and Thomas sighs. The paint, although quick-drying, has stained his shirt. “Yeah, okay,” he says, “I’ll clean you up, don’t worry.” 

He takes her out back into the yard and sits her on the paved stone under the palm trees beside the swimming pool, and tells her to stay as he goes to fetch the hose. This will go one of two ways; the first is Barnacle will stay still like a good cat, or she will freak out and jump into the pool. Either way will result in far more cleaning than Thomas had been anticipating he would have to do over the next couple weeks. 

A low growl emits from above Thomas’ head when he returns, and he on instinct asks, “And what do _ you _ want?” 

The growl returns, this time punchier, and Thomas looks up at the stone wall lining the edge of the backyard to see two glowing eyes glaring at him from the aloes and fan palms. 

“I did feed you,” Thomas says, and Calypso sticks her large, spotted yellow head out from the trees and, _ Oh _ . He forgot to let her in last night. _Shit_. There goes point number 7: _ Remember to let Calypso inside to sleep. _

Thomas winces. “Sorry,” he says, and when the cat gives him a pointedly flat look, he insists, “I am. You’re a leopard, it’s not like you can’t handle one night on the grass? Look –” Thomas points toward the large sun lounge by the pool, round and spacious with a visor against the sun; perfect for a temperamental leopard, “there’s even a nice bed for you right there.”

Calypso hisses and refuses to tolerate Thomas’ presence for a moment longer, jumping down the stone and trotting inside with her tail swinging behind her like a deadly whip. 

From the grass bed, Barnacle chirrups to remind Thomas that’s she is there. 

The paint doesn’t come off as easy as he had hoped it would. Most of it around her middle is gone, but parts of Barnacle around her face, paws, and back legs are still orange, now giving the impression of some kind of alien disease. Thomas sighs as she blinks at him, dripping wet with hair sticking up at every which angle, and helpless. 

He can’t leave her like this. 

Well, he _ could, _but he doesn’t have the heart to. 

“Alright, come on,” Thomas says, clicking his fingers for her to follow. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

_ A walk _ entails shoving her in her cat carrier and rolling her to the vet while she mewls at his ankles, sadly, probably imagining that Thomas is giving her back. 

He has it all sorted and ready to go, Barnacle is meowing her little heart away, when Thomas’ phone begins to ring in his pocket. He answers it with a curt, “What?”

“Is this going to be a thing, now?” Minho asks on the other end, “You answering the phone like this? Have your parents taught you no manners?”

“What is it, Minho? I’m kinda busy.”

Minho sounds puzzled, “I thought you weren’t working until tonight?” 

Thomas says, “I’m taking Barnacle to the vet,” and, at the sound of her name, the cat begins to mewl louder, almost hysterically. Minho must hear it, as he begins to laugh. 

“Of course,” he says. “Anyway, I was just going to ask if you wanted to swing by. My sister’s not home so we took over her room to play some video games. She has the best acoustics.” 

“We?” Thomas asks, frowning. 

“Oh yeah, Newt’s here. But, like, whatever,” Minho says, right before a distant, _ “Hi, Tommy!” _comes over the receiver. “Since you’re busy … some other time.” 

“Some other time,” Thomas mutters, crossing the street. 

“Oh, hey,” Minho begins, “Guess what Brenda told me this morning.”

“What?” Thomas asks, and stops in his tracks, internally groaning. 

Brenda. 

The car he left at her house. 

The car he could be driving to the vet in right now. 

Thomas looks back in the direction of his friend’s home wistfully and considers turning back for a moment before deciding it would be more effort than it’s worth. He is almost out of suburbia, anyway; maybe another 10 – 15 minutes of walking before he hits the main strip.

It’s the flat, desert landscape that makes everything seem both further and closer than it actually is. Sector C – aka Callisto – is the oldest sector and modelled after a place on Earth formerly called Palm Springs, California. It’s beautiful, and warm all the time, and the sky is always clear and blue except on designated rain days, and Thomas much prefers it to any of the other moons. 

Not that he has been to any, so he’s going off word of mouth. 

Either way, it’s home. 

Minho is saying: “So Ben and Rachel allegedly hooked up last night, and Brenda only found out about it because she found them this morning in her bed.” 

Thomas’ eyebrows shoot up to the clouds. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes!” Minho says, sounding way too excited. Maybe because he and Gally have been tag-teaming for about a year to convince Ben to move on from Rachel, and her very obvious evasions. Ben insisted that there was something between them, but he and Gally were sceptical, so maybe Minho is just very happy to be proven wrong. 

“I, personally, would have killed them,” Minho says, his voice laced with displeasure, and Thomas hears Newt’s hum of approval in the background. He wonders if Minho has him on speaker. “Her bed? Really? They couldn’t’ve called a cab – anyway. Good for them, I guess.” 

“Yeah, good for them,” Thomas agrees, perking up in case he is on speaker. Newt has a tendency to notice particular things like inflexions in Thomas’ voice whenever he is feeling less than peachy. It’s a little annoying at times, mostly because of how good he is at it. 

“Also don’t tell anyone about this,” Minho says. 

Thomas rolls his eyes and hopes Minho can hear it. “Of course.” 

“Tommy’s good with secrets,” Newt says, and, yeah, Thomas is definitely on speaker, “Aren’t you, mate?” 

Thomas smiles. “Oh, one hundred per-cent.” 

“His middle name is Surreptitious,” Newt says. 

“It’s true,” Thomas says, “Got it changed last week.” 

“It’s official, then. Dedication to the max. All secrets held with Tommy will be taken to the grave.”

Thomas snorts. “You know it, baby.” 

“Okay, I’m ending this,” Minho says. “Newt, focus on not getting me killed by aliens. _ Tommy _, good luck with the demon.” 

With that the call drops out, and Thomas walks the rest of the way to the vet feeling lighter.

-

Lawrence is in his usual spot outside the thrift store. The alcove hidden from the sun and backed up by the elaborate fountain is probably the coolest area of the mall, possibly even this entire section of the square. He spreads out on his stomach with his legs bent at the knee, and his ankle, skinny where the tattered edge of his corduroy pants have slipped down, slowly turns as if he is trying to work out the muscle. His fingers hover over a chessboard that he is playing a game with himself today, most likely judging his next move. Off to the right is a jar of roses. 

Lawrence is on a bit of personal quest to collect as many roses as he can. His goal by the end of the year is to get to 300. There aren’t many roses on Sector C, the residence much preferring more exotic arrangements, which is what he says will make his collection that much nicer. People help him out when they can, and so far Thomas has given him three in the two years since he’s met him. 

“Morning, Lawrence,” Thomas greets, stopping at the entrance to the mall. 

Lawrence looks up, squints at Thomas as if he is standing in direct sunlight. His face is lined with age and painted with vine-like tattoos which curl across his left cheek and forehead in intricate patterns. The tip of his nose is inked black, which gives him a vaguely skeletal look in some lighting. 

The man hesitates a moment longer before realising it is Thomas and relaxing, and beams, “Ah! Good morning to you, too, m’boy.”

“Did you catch the meteor shower last night?” Thomas asks. 

“Of course,” Lawrence scoffs, rolling to sit up, “Great view on the roof if you know how to how to get up there. Time for a game, today?”

Thomas shakes his head and gestures down to the pet carrier, which has now gone quiet. Good. Too much stress is bad for her. “Can’t,” he says, “Have to take Barnacle to get cleaned up.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the little nugget done now?” Lawrence asks, wiggling his finger toward the cage door and clicking his tongue. Inside, Barnacle purrs. 

“Uh,” Thomas clears his throat, “Paint mishap.” 

A new voice says, “That’s unfortunate. Paint can leave a horrible rash for an animal.”

Thomas looks down to find Nina standing beside him, sucking on a lollipop as usual, and barely conceals a wince. “Let’s hope not. Hey, Nina.” 

The girl looks up at him, blonde curls bouncing around her cheeks. Her brown eyes are blank and her voice in its usual monotone when she says, “Yo. You guys playing?”

“Nope,” Thomas says. 

“Rad. Care to go a round, Lawrence? I got an hour to spear.” 

Lawrence gestures to the ground on the other side of the chessboard, “Not at all. Take a seat, little lady.”

“What was the score, again?” Thomas asks as Nina sits, moving her skirt carefully out of the way to do so. She tightens her bow and hunches over her knees, staring at the board in critique, and that uncomfortable, pitying feeling Thomas gets in his bones whenever he sees Nina returns. 

Physically eleven, however she is older than Thomas in technicality. Her parents have put her through age rewind therapy – a procedure mainly popular with men and women approaching their forties who wish to remain younger for longer – six times to keep her at that “perfect age”. Thomas has no doubts it will happen again pretty soon, and Nina looks less and less enthusiastic about the situation as the years go by. 

“Ten to nine, I think,” Nina says, and Thomas falls out of his thoughts. She looks at Lawrence, slyly. “I believe I was in the lead.”

Lawrence pokes his tongue out and waves a hand, “We’ll just see about that.”

Barnacle mewls at Thomas’ feet, reminding him of the place and time. “Anyway, I gotta get going,” he says, “But have fun. Good game. Let me know the verdict.” 

Lawrence gives him a thumbs up and Nina says, “’Kay. Bye, Thomas,” both of their eyes locked intensely on the board. Thomas walks off right after Nina moves a bishop one square, which makes Lawrence swear.

The vet shoots Thomas a long-suffering look which rivals his own when he walks through the doors of the clinic and, not even asking what is wrong, holds her hand out for him to pass her the carrier. After a long ten minutes spent of Thomas texting Teresa updates on Barnacle, and Newt the weirdest emojis he can find which Newt returns with equal vigour, the vet renters with a shinier, cleaner Barnacle in her arms.

When the woman hands her back to Thomas she all but melts into his chest, rubbing the top of her head against his jaw and purring. She must be happy to be paint-free. Thomas pays the vet, thanks her, and dodges the question when she asks how Barnacle ended up with all the paint on her in the first place. 

He drops Barnacle back home and begins the short distance to Brenda’s house to retrieve the car, and sure enough there it is, sleek and white and sitting untouched exactly where he left it. The door opens easily and Thomas immediately dives in to begin working. 

Something hard digs into his kidney and Thomas flinches back and winces in pain when. 

He rolls to the side to find the crystal sphere he took from the woods the night before, glowing liquid ice and shining. Thomas frowns for a moment, as the colour appears slightly different than it had when they found them; the cool silvery-blue has shifted to a soft silvery-yellow, pale blue fading in every so often.

Thomas continues to stare, puzzled, until a sharp voice calls out, “Hey!” and he jerks so hard he hits the car horn. Shaking himself and locking his pride in hard and tight, Thomas crawls forward on his stomach and rolls down the window to squint at Breda, who stands at the edge of her garden in last night’s clothes and fuzzy green slippers, posing beside a cactus like those women in the landscaping magazines his mom collects. 

“Hi, Brenda,” Thomas says, “Good morning.”

Brenda raises an eyebrow, “It’s 1pm.” 

“Good afternoon, then.” 

“What are you,” Brenda gestures to the car, and to Thomas, suspiciously inside of it, “doing, exactly?”

Thomas shifts on to his knees, coughing once, and says, “Uhh …” 

Brenda’s eyes widen like dinner plates, and she cups a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god,” she says, voice stuttering with laughter, “You’re hotwiring it. I thought Minho was joking. Thomas, are you seriously hotwiring your father’s Mustang? Do you want to die?”

“Technically,” Thomas begins, feebly, “It’ll be mine one day, so I like to think of this as prematurely borrowing.”

Brenda hums. “He took the keys, didn’t he?”

Thomas grimaces. “That’s the ongoing theory, yes.” 

Brenda pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, hip cocking and for a moment Thomas feels worried that she is swaying a little too close to that cactus. He says, “Sleep well?”

She peeks her eyes open to glare at Thomas, and that’s answer enough. “Well,” he says, “You have a whole day ahead of you full of quiet, and no unsuspecting noises in the middle of the night.”

Brenda’s glare does not lessen. “I wish,” she says. “Not all of us can take a gap year like your buddy-o-pal.”

Thomas shrinks a little in his seat. With the beginning of summer and the excitement that it carried with it in the form of the meteor shower, Thomas had almost forgotten the reality that he will have to make it through one whole year of school without Newt. He’s elected to take a year off before choosing a profession, and he says it’s because he wants to wait for Thomas and Minho finish up so they can all be together, but Thomas thinks it’s because he doesn’t know what he wants to do, yet. 

He’s forgotten what Brenda has chosen as her profession, and is too embarrassed to ask.

“Newt’s your friend, too,” Thomas says. 

“Not when he’s on vacation.” Brenda slips one foot out of a fuzzy slipper to scratch at her calf with her big toe. “Anyway, I’ll let you get on with your delinquency. Drive it like you stole it, yadda yadda.”

“Didn’t you take your aunt’s car for a joyride around the block when you were, like, thirteen?”

Brenda picks up the slipper and points it at Thomas threateningly, “Get off my property before I report you for trespassing.” 

Thomas raises his palms in surrender and sets to work on getting the car running. At home, he climbs the stairs to his bedroom to begin dressing for work, and leaves the blue sphere by the chest of draws beside his bed. It glows of a moment when he puts it down, then shimmers back into a light sheen. 

Sonya widens her eyes to articulate an internal scream at Thomas from across the diner as she listens to a girl rattle off all the different flavours of ice cream she somehow expects them to make fit into a regular-sized Sunday glass. Thomas laughs quietly and continues wiping down the table. The dinner rush is always absolutely horrendous, but he doesn’t quite mind the 8-10 period usually, where teenagers and couples come in to order ice cream. However, this being the first week of summer break means that kids are free to roam as they please because their parents don’t have to wrangle them into bed early for a while. 

Which means that Thomas has to deal with them. And Sonya, when she’s working. Tonight she has gracefully accepted the closing shift with Thomas, because she is a celestial star. 

Thomas finishes cleaning the same time she is done with that table’s order, and he skates to the bar counter to meet her, where she is staring at the row of ice cream flavours as if she’s formulating a game plan.

“How many?” Thomas asks. 

“It was about seven, all up,” Sonya says, voice just above a whisper. “Seven flavours! Who wants seven flavours of ice cream at once?”

“That girl over there.”

“It was a rhetorical question, you dunce,” Sonya says, dropping a dollop of chocolate ice cream into the bottom of the glass. Thomas watches as Sonya finishes the multi-coloured masterpiece of an ice cream Sunday, applauding her when she is done, and watches her skate back over to the table. 

Thomas has his back turns for a moment before the feelings of approaching confrontation washes over him like a cold sheet, and he spins back around to find the girl and Sonya arguing. Or, rather, the customer arguing with Sonya. 

“Sorry, I asked for blueberry as well,” she says. 

Sonya toys with the end of one of her braids and looks wildly unconcerned. “That is blueberry, honey.” 

The customer shakes her head and her friend, sitting opposite her, taps away at her phone and pretends the exchange is not happening. “No, it tastes like cotton candy.” 

“That’s just what the blueberry tastes like.” 

“Oh,” the girl frowns. “Really?” Sonya nods. It isn’t, Zart must have just mixed the tubs again. Thomas skates forward just as the girl is saying, “Well, do you have anything more blueberry flavoured?”

“Unfortunately, we’re out of ultra-blueberry blueberry,” Thomas says. “Such a popular flavour, and all.” Beside him, Sonya clears her throat to keep down a bubble of laughter. Thomas continues, “How about we give you a slice of blueberry cheese cake? On the house?”

The girl perks up at this, and says, “Oh! That would be great, thank you!” 

Sonya smiles and squeezes Thomas’ arm as she rolls back to the counter, and Thomas nods humbly to the girl and turns to follow her. No one ever buys that cheesecake. The manager has been storing it in the fridge for over a week, which doesn’t exactly abide by any sort of food code, anywhere, but what can you do. 

The girl receives her complimentary cheesecake and she and her friend carry on, happy. Sonya is in the middle of telling Thomas about her gig at a diner the following weekend when the heady _ whoosh _of the automatic doors catch his ears, and he groans over a new flow of customers. He groans again, when he sees who it is. 

Sonya turns around and squeaks in delight when seeing their respective friends walk through the front doors of the ice cream parlour but Thomas, himself, couldn’t be less thrilled. He likes his friends, obviously, just not at his work where they make him give them the most ridiculously complex sundaes to whip up, or have him roller skate back and forth across the store to change the song on the jukebox because they can’t fucking do it themselves. 

Because these are the people Thomas surrounds himself with. 

Thomas scans the group for Teresa but unfortunately does not find her. The saving grace is Newt walking in last, which immediately lifts Thomas’ mood, but dulls Sonya’s. There is nothing Sonya hates more across the four moons than serving her older brother. 

“You can do him,” she says, and skates off to meet Harriet and Teresa completely oblivious to Thomas’ sudden coughing fit, having choked on a drop of his own spit. 

Thomas shakes his head free of all thoughts besides the _ Big Smile Shoulders Back Customer Service Attitude! _ his boss is always reciting to him, and rolls toward his friends, asking, “What do you want?” 

Minho makes a face, “Is that any way to greet a customer, Tommy?”

“Fuck you, it’s 9:50 PM. You’re getting a milkshake,” Thomas says, and scribbles down a strawberry milkshake for Minho. The others are feeling particularly respectful tonight, for once, and between them, he and Sonya manage to get everyone’s orders without a single “banana truffle flying sundae” on the list. 

Newt is still standing by the door, leaning against the wall and tapping away at his phone with an odd expression. Thomas skates up to him and says, “You need to be seated if you want to be served.” 

Newt stares up at him, blinking, and puts away his phone. “Sorry,” he says, and offers no further comeback. Looks like Thomas isn’t the only one feeling out of sorts tonight. 

“Still,” Thomas says, “Sit down. You just standing here is making me nervous.”

Newt perks up a little at this. “I’m making you nervous, Tommy?” he says, kicking off the wall to stand at full height. With Thomas’ skates on they match up perfectly, and Newt’s eyes stare right into his, making his palms feel tingly and his tongue numb. 

“No, I –” Thomas begins, “You’re blocking the doorway. Customers might not be able to get in.” He pauses, “Actually, never mind. Stay right there.” 

Newt laughs and reaches forward to squeeze his fingers around Thomas’ wrist before slipping past, and sliding into the booth beside Minho. Thomas gazes after him, breathes deeply, and goes to fetch everyone their orders. 

They all take their sweet time eating and drinking their milkshakes. Thomas and Sonya join their friends in the booths, staring flatly and making not-so-subtle nudging remarks for them to get a move on. It is at the graceful hour of 10:39 that they finally decide they’re done, and Thomas and Sonya kick them all out into the front lot to begin closing up. Done with the banking, Thomas closes the register with a hard shove so that it chimes loudly in the harsh silence of the diner, and drags himself to the back to lock up. 

Aris, nestled comfortably between Sonya and Harriet as always, had been inviting people back to his house when Thomas delivered the milkshakes. He has been trying to catch his eye, and Thomas has been coming up with excuses in his head for the last half-hour before settling on the classic _ I’m not feeling well _. Minho will tease him and Gally will roll his eyes and the others will make remarks few and far between, but whatever, they can get over it. 

With his skates slung over his shoulder, Thomas locks the doors and makes his way over to everyone leaning against Harriet’s light blue Chevrolet, while his legs refamiliarize themselves with walking on solid ground. Minho is on him in a second. 

“Hey, man,” he begins, and Thomas prepares himself, “A bunch of us are going back to Aris’ for a bit. You wanna join?” 

“Actually, I uh,” Thomas says, dropping his shoulders and bringing his fatigue up to the surface more prominently, “I’m not feeling the best. Might just go home.” 

It isn’t a complete lie. The echo takes its toll on everyone and it, for some reason, has chosen to come down hard on Thomas. Minho gives him an odd look Thomas can’t place and nods, thankfully content with the excuse. He squeezes his shoulder, and after telling Thomas to take it easy, leaves to find his car. Thomas watches him go. 

Minho doesn’t talk about his symptoms, so much so that for a while Thomas thought he didn’t have any. But they’re there in his eyes, often in moments like this; the cautious hesitation and the supportive hand on Thomas’ shoulder. He realises now they are assurances that his friend understands. Thomas stares after him, watches him clap Ben on the back and ruffle Brenda’s hair, laughing when she shoves him. 

Newt has his bike parked beside the car when Thomas approaches. He leans against it, eyebrows raised expectantly. Tonight his hair hangs loose around his face, curling against his jaw and brushing the back of his neck like strung gold. 

“You’re not coming?” Newt asks, his tone giving away that he already knows the answer. “You have an appointment with Mary tomorrow, right?”

Thomas, twirling the ring of his keys on his finger, stops. “I do,” he says. 

Newt raises an eyebrow. “Did you forget?”

“I didn’t.” 

The press of Newt’s lips tells Thomas he doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t dwell, and instead asks, “How is that going for you?”

“Fine,” Thomas lies, “The echo’s fading more each day.” 

Newt nods, and this time his expression gives away nothing. The group pass them by – Ben claps Newt on the back, hard, and Brenda slaps Thomas on the ass, harder – shouting as they go, and Thomas cringes, already fearing the security footage in the morning, his boss having already given them one warning about loitering on the property after hours. 

“We should go,” he says, adjusting the skates tied by their laces over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, uh.” Newt’s hand stills on the leather jacket strewn over the seat of his bike. “I was thinking,” he says, “I don’t really fancy spending hours at Aris’, and mum and dad are at this dinner-conference-thing and they won’t be back in the morning, and uh …”

Newt stops, and Thomas fills in the blanks in his head. Newt, somewhat like Minho, never talked much about his echo, but what Thomas did gather out of it was this overwhelming aversion to isolation Newt had developed sometime last year. He confessed to Thomas, one night as they lounged on Thomas’ bedroom floor and blew smoke rings at the ceiling, that he often felt like he was drowning in that big, empty house he lived in, especially when no one else was home. From the day his echo symptoms began, Newt would always be found beside another person, that be it his sister, or Minho, or Thomas, or Minho and Thomas. 

“So, I wondered if I could just come over to yours?” Newt concludes. “Spend the night.” 

When Thomas doesn’t answer right away, Newt rocks back on his heels and says, “You can tell me to get fucked.” 

“No, no!” Thomas says, “Yeah, man, of course you can stay over.” 

Newt picks at a handlebar with the tip of his nail and smiles, eyes lit up by the sign of the 24-hour grocery market next door. He looks relieved.

Thomas hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and clears his throat, and says, “I’ll race you back?”

“Yeah, I don’t fancy dying. Did you even pass your driving exam?”

“I did,” Thomas says, defensively. “I _ did _, Newt!” 

“Barely,” Newt laughs, and when Thomas swings his skates at him, Newt whacks him with his jacket in reprisal. 

They make it back to Thomas’ house in once piece, amazingly, and indulge themselves with alcohol from his parents’ cabinet and bad old earth movies for a handful of hours. The cats wander in around 11:30, trotting over with an air like they had been rudely uninformed of Newt’s graceful presence, and proceed to curl around him to make up for lost time; Calypso on the expanse of couch beside him and Barnacle in his lap, purring in contentment. 

Thomas thinks it rather unfair that his cats like Newt more than they like him. 

Later, while Newt is brushing his teeth in Thomas’ bathroom, Thomas lounges on his bed and fiddles with the ice crystal. It is different tonight, again, the silver-blue-yellow has shifted into a warm orange tone with pink, thread-like highlights that glow vivid under the spotlights on his bedroom ceiling. Thomas wonders about it as he tries not to listen to the sounds of Newt in the next room, getting ready to climb into bed beside him, when he hears a familiar spark of static from his desk. 

Thomas swings his legs over the side of his bed and rocks himself onto his feet, reaching the small walkie-talkie radio just as Teresa’s voice calls out on the other end. 

“Ground control to Major Tom. Come in.”

Thomas picks up the radio while rolling his eyes, and answering, “Do you always have to say that?” 

“I know you love it, Thomas. It’s okay, we can be honest with each other,” Teresa says. 

Thomas rolls his eyes, once more with feeling, and sits back on the edge of his bed. The hologram analogue on his wall tells him it is past 1 AM. Thomas has set it to an ocean theme for tonight, and as he watches a small angelfish swim through the hole of the 9 seconds before it turns into a 10, it’s fins fluttering slightly in shock over it, he asks, “What have you been up to all night?”

“Oh, you know,” she says, “The usual. Eating ice cream and painting my nails and then biting them down to the cuticle, spending twenty minutes picking blue flakes out of my teeth, and then settle in for a date with David and Jennifer.” 

Teresa is on a huge old planet kick at the moment, specifically regarding its films and music. She’s watched _ Labyrinth _ a few times now, the first with Thomas, and while Thomas didn’t care much for the creepy crawling vines across the stone walls and even creepier little goblins, Teresa was completely invested. He did find he liked Jareth, however, and then put up with Teresa making fun of him for “having a thing for blondes”. 

“You didn’t go out with the others?” Thomas finds himself asking, and grimaces when the line falls silent. 

“No,” Teresa begins, slowly, “Didn’t feel up to it. What about you? How’ve you been keeping yourself after work? I tried buzzing but you weren’t in your room.”

“You know you can just text me. That’s still an option, Tessa.” 

Thomas can _ feel _ her making a face at him, when she answers, “This is more fun.” 

Fine. Old World Culture Kick. 

“Actually, Newt’s been over,” Thomas answers, finally, “We were hanging out.” 

“Oh.” Teresa pauses. “Oh, right. Is he still there?”

Thomas rolls the sphere between the pads of his fingers and glances toward the en suite. The water has stopped, and Newt is most likely changing into the shirt and boxers Thomas leant him. He hums to himself softly as he does, and for a moment Thomas allows himself to be distracted by the melodic tones before the crackle of the walkie-talkie reels him back in.

“He is,” he tells Teresa. 

“Okay,” she says, tone odd, “I won’t keep you, then.”

Thomas starts, “Hey –”

“Night, Thomas.” The light in the corner of his radio turns off, telling him that Teresa has switched off her radio. Thomas sighs and places his back on the desk just as the en suite door opens and Newt reappears, ready for bed and wearing Thomas’ _ California Dreaming _ t-shirt. His heart stutters, insufferably, for a moment.

“I thought I heard voices,” Newt says, “Talking to yourself, Tommy?” 

Thomas shakes his head, walking over to the bed and tossing the ice sphere in his hand like a baseball. “Just me and my seven imaginary friends.” 

Newt hums. “I promise I won’t be jealous,” he says. Falling onto the bed, he rolls onto his hip to face Thomas, “Can’t say the same about Minho, though.” 

Thomas fiddles with the sphere, kicking one foot in front of the other in a lazy dawdle. “It was actually Teresa.” 

Newt raises his brows and shoots a glance toward Thomas’ desk, where the walkie-talkie lives. “Oh yeah,” he says, “You two still use those, don’t you?” 

“Yep,” Thomas answers, tossing the sphere in the air and catching it in the palm of his hand. 

Newt turns his eyes back to him, “You know you can just text each other? Like ordinary people?” 

Thomas shrugs, and feels his lips curve into a grin, “Where’s the magic in that?”

He and Teresa have lived opposite each other since the day they were born – which was, incidentally, three weeks apart. Teresa came first, and that three-day buffer period is one she has held over his head their entire lives. When they were five Thomas’ mother bought them both walkie-talkies so that they could quote-un-quote _ talk their throats raw into the night _ from the safety of their bedrooms. Ever since then it has been a sort of unspoken rule between them that they will continue to use the small radios until they either break, or she and Thomas become too old – if that day ever comes. 

“Can’t argue with that,” Newt says, in the end, before his eyes flick to Thomas’ hand. “What’ve you got there?” he asks, and when Thomas holds it out to him, “Oh, right. Mine’s changing, too.” 

“Really?” Thomas frowns, coming to sit cross-legged on the bed. Newt moves into a sitting position, also, and Thomas tries not to feel too particular about the sight of him; unbrushed hair and ready for sleep, comfortably in the middle of Thomas’ king size bed like there is no reason he should be anywhere else. “Should that be … happening?”

“You ask that question like I’m supposed to know, Tommy,” Newt says, and holds his hand out for Thomas to pass him the ice crystal. Newt examines the object as he had done yesterday, slowly mapping out every micro inch of it with the pads of his fingers, his touch feather-light. 

Thomas allows himself to be distracted for half a moment and no longer. 

“Should we get rid of them?” he asks, tone shifting into weary.

Newt does not look overly concerned. “No, they’re fine,” he says, shrugging, “I mean, they’re just changing colours.”

“Yeah, but what if,” Thomas says, because it is past one in the morning, “they start growing spikes?”

Newt’s eyes flit to over to Thomas, swaying with humour. “Spikes?” he says, holding up the small round ball, the lights glowing a soft blue and violet, “This?”

When Thomas shrugs, Newt allows the sphere to roll from the palm of his hand and drop on to the bed where it lands with a dull, muffled _ thud _. Newt pokes it a couple times as it remains there innocently, a few jabs to test the waters, before rolling it toward Thomas. Thomas rolls it back. 

“I think you’re safe,” Newt says, and without further ado plucks the ball from the linen and rests it on the corner table on his side of the bed. His hair slips out from behind his ear, curving around his cheek and kissing the corner of his mouth. A tongue darts out reticently, grabbing a few ends of the strands and pulling it further in, and when Newt turns back to Thomas, he feels the insane need to reach out and correct them. 

“And if it does,” Newt says, “you have me here to protect you.”

“Thank Jupiter,” Thomas says, and when Newt smiles, pulling the strands from his mouth with his fingernail, Thomas sits on his hands. 

The bed is warm in the morning. 

Sunlight streams in through the window in thin, shimmering rivets. The curtains that Thomas has programmed to gently open from 7:30 to 8:00 have spread wide enough to let the morning in, politely coaxing him out of sleep and into the waking world. Thomas presses his cheek into the soft cotton of the pillow and sighs deeply through his nose; his toes, knees, hips, and shoulders pulling taunt in a brief stretch before relaxing with a sigh. 

The arm slung comfortably over his lower back shifts, and Thomas blinks his eyes open to Newt’s face mere inches away. Eyelashes rest delicately on pink cheeks flushed from sleep, and nude lips the colour of pink rose buds part to reveal a sliver of white teeth. Newt’s nose whistles as he breathes, and it makes Thomas smile. 

The clock on Thomas’ wall reveals it is 8:06 a.m.; the fish are swimming to the surface, their tails jittering as if they are, too, barely waking up. A small clownfish makes a loop around the curl of the 6 just before it turns to a 7. 

Thomas presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and takes a deep breath, feet toeing at the blankets. He should get up soon – his appointment with Mary is in less than half-an-hour and, given that she is the only doctor on Callisto who has an impeccable, near-inhuman track record for seeing her clients on time, she does not excuse tardiness of any sort. Especially from Thomas, who is a known repeat offender. 

Just as he is building up the courage to pull the sheets back and bring his day clothes into the bathroom with him to change, the bed shifts and the sheets pull at his legs, and the arm around his waist pulls away and leaves him to immediately miss its warmth. Newt rolls on to his stomach with furrowed brows and a scrunched nose, pressing his face into the pillow against the light, his hair dropping like a curtain to take care of the rest of it. A dull craving begins to churn in the bottom of Thomas’ stomach when Newt slides his arms under the pillow to stretch, pulling the t-shirt higher up his spine from where it had settled at his lower back during the night. 

Without saying a word Thomas carefully slips from the bed and, as planned, grabs a pair of pants and a shirt from his dresser and tiptoes into the en suite. Teeth brushed and hair pondered over for a moment before it was decided nothing can be done about it, Thomas dresses as quick as he can, feeling irrationally self-conscious over the concept of being naked while Newt is blissfully sound asleep and unaware in the next room. 

He tucks his shirt in and ties his belt, and makes a mental note to do some laundry this afternoon. The knee-length shorts do very little to hide the bruises and scrapes on his knees from the incessive amount of time he has to spend on his knees in the car, screwdriver in hand. 

They itch at the memory and the knowledge that he is about to do it again. 

Newt is still fast asleep when Thomas enters the bedroom again but now finds that Barnacle has slipped through the gap in the open door and curled up against Newt’s hip. Calypso has followed her in also, and sleeps on the floor at the foot of the bed, purring as she sleeps; an imposing guard. 

Thomas clears his throat lightly and begins, “Hey,” and waits for Newt to stir, and for his eyes to open before continuing, “I have to go now.”

Newt nods, nuzzling the pillow. “Okay,” he mumbles, “How?”

“The car?”

“The _ car? _” Newt turns his face up the slightest fraction to look at Thomas, eyes squinting in the morning light. “You’re seriously going to keep driving that?” 

Thomas shrugs. 

Newt continues, “I can take you,” and as he begins to push himself up off the mattress, Barnacle chirping in displeasure. Thomas stops him. 

“No, don’t. It’s fine, Newt, really,” he says. “The centre is just a 5-minute drive away.” 

“Yeah, but –” newt cuts himself off, and falls back on to the mattress, arms giving out. He speaks at Thomas through the pillow, muffling his words, “Take my bike.” 

Thomas feels himself getting annoyed, “No, Newt, it’s fine.” 

Newt waves a hand, clearly not listening, “Find the keys. They’re in my jacket, somewhere …” 

“I don’t know how to drive that thing,” Thomas snaps.

Newt turns to look at him, eyes growing more alert. 

Thomas says, “Lock the door when you leave,” and walks out of the room. The last thing he hears before he disappears down the stairs is Calypso’s low, rumbling mewl, and it sounds a lot like she is apologising to Newt on Thomas’ behalf. 

Mary hits Thomas’ knee with a small hammer to make it kick because she is a doctor and is, therefore, allowed. Which is, well, whatever – again, she’s a doctor. If _ Thomas _ were to hit someone with a hammer he very much doubts the repercussions would be as devoid. When her back is turned Thomas allows himself to wince and rub at the sore knee – red and bruised, which she definitely noticed, but, for assumed reasons that Thomas has therefore since banished to the void of his mind, she does not comment on. 

“So,” Thomas begins, clapping his thighs and swinging his feet from where he sits up on the doctor’s bed, “What’s the verdict?”

“Well, Thomas,” Mary says, flipping the pages of her chart back to the front and placing it on her desk before walking to the water fountain and pouring a cup. “I was hoping we’d have more time before this conversation came around, but …” 

Mary looks at him, and the blood in Thomas’ face drains, and his heart all but stops. Then, Mary straightens up, and the usual warm smile is spread across her face. Her eyes crinkle in the corners as she says, “I’m kidding, everything’s fine.” 

Thomas sags a little on the bench, “Could you not do that? Please?”

“A little fright keeps the blood pumping.” Mary winks, handing Thomas the cup of water, which he gratefully drains half of in one gulp, strangely thirsty. “Really,” she continues, “Everything looks to be in order. Your blood pressure is good, and your test results came back clear. You’re perfectly healthy, Thomas.”

“Okay, but –” 

_ Why does it feel like his lungs will turn to stone inside of his body sometimes, or dry up like an arid desert? _

Mary rolls a stool toward the bed and sits down, pressing her hands between her knees and looking up at Thomas with that serious-but-not-serious doctor’s expression he has seen far too many times. 

“Thomas,” Mary says, “If there is anything bothering you, I hope you’d tell me.” 

Thomas nods, slowly, diverting his gaze to the right. Mary continues, “Are you eating right? Getting enough sleep?”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, shrugging. He hasn’t been doing anything that he doesn’t usually. 

Mary regards him for a moment. Slowly, she reaches over to pluck the small clipboard on her desk into her lap, clicking her pen. “This is an important and sometimes difficult time in your life, Thomas, and I just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” she says. “Has your chest been hurting you recently?” 

“Uh. I mean, not _ badly _.”

“And what about exercise? Are you doing enough of it?”

“Sure.”

“Have you been smoking?”

“No,” Thomas lies, taking another long sip of water. 

Mary asks, “And are you sexually active?” 

Thomas chokes on the water. His face turns red, only partly from the droplets in his throat. Mary sits back and gives him the Cool Family Doctor look. “It’s perfectly okay if you are, Thomas, I’m not going to judge you, but it is my job to make sure you’re being safe as well as it is yours.”

“Uh.” Thomas coughs, hand moving to cup the back of his neck, warm with embarrassment. “Um, no, I – I’m not. Having sex, I mean,” he quickly clarifies. 

Mary’s expression does not change. “Okay. One last question and you’re free to go. I promise,” she says, and Thomas sits up and listens, even though he already knows what is coming, “Have you been doing those exercises I showed you?” 

For some reason, Thomas thinks to say _ No _ outright would be rude or insulting to her profession, even if it is the truth. But Mary just does not seem to get that he doesn’t need to do breathing exercises to deal with the anxiety that she thinks he has. The problem with Thomas’ lungs aren’t to do with anxiety – they’re something else. 

They’re echoes from a different lifetime, where he was someone else, someone with a different name and a body that did not always agree with him. 

Eventually, he says, “I’ve been trying,” and hopes that Mary buys it. 

“Thomas,” she begins, and Thomas is lead to believe that she didn’t, “This time is very stressful. Echo symptoms can be … harsh, and merciless sometimes. Yours, specifically, are particularly prominent. What I’m trying to do is ensure that they stay at the level that they are now and don’t get any worse, and, hopefully, better soon. Just try the exercises, even if it’s for five minutes a day – hell, five minutes a week if you want.” Mary says, “I just want to know that you’re trying.” 

“Yeah,” Thomas says, mouth dry, “Yeah, Mary, of course.” 

She lets him go with a warm smile and a red, heart-shaped lollipop that he walks out with in his mouth. 

Checking his phone, Thomas sees that Newt has texted him, random and ominously, _ Ride _. 

_ What? _ He texts back, and within minutes receives a reply back from Newt.

_ You don’t ‘drive’ a motorbike, you ride it. _ Then, before Thomas can finish typing out a response, Newt sends _ , I can teach you if you want. _

_ – _

It is inherently a bad idea, but Thomas is known to see a red flag dangling in front of his face and, instead of turning away, proceeds to barrel headfirst into it like an angry bull.

That afternoon, everyone turns up to watch the show – aka Thomas humiliating himself – because they apparently have nowhere else to be and nothing better to do. Aris brings a bag of popcorn which he shares with Minho, and Thomas vehemently flips them off when Newt’s back is turned. Minho just makes a V with his fingers in return, but at least Aris has the good grace to look a bit ashamed. 

Ignoring them both, Thomas turns back to the task at hand: not falling off and/or crashing into a tree. 

They’ve found a nice wide, empty street in a new developmental area to do this, where the houses are few and far apart. The chance for calamity is low but Thomas is still sceptical. The thought of taking off the training wheels (Newt’s feet) is terrifying. 

Right now he sits behind Thomas, teaching him valuable information about not dying on a motorcycle that Thomas isn’t really hearing on account of Newt being pressed _ very _, very close against his back. He feels the rise and fall and shifts in Newt’s breathing along his spine, and it makes Thomas feel awfully conscious of his own. 

“Okay,” Newt says, leaning forward over Thomas shoulder, pointing at the two handlebars, “This is your break, and this is the acceleration. Got that? Tommy?” 

Thomas snaps himself awake, “Huh?”

An inch to his left Newt is grinning. “Try and pay attention,” he says, “I don’t want to be responsible for you driving into a wall.” 

“Ride,” Thomas says.

“What?”

Thomas leans forward, squeezing the break in examination. “You don’t drive a bike, you ride it.”

Newt scoffs and falls back. A cool breeze sneaks up the back of Thomas’ shirt, making him shiver. “Alright, smarty-pants,” Newt says, “Nice to know you _ are _ learning something.” 

“Can you guys hurry up?” Gally calls from where he sits between Brenda and Teresa, holding out a lighter for the former, “We’re getting bored here.”

“Yeah,” Brenda says, words muffled from the cigarette between her lips. “The ground is fuckin’ hard, too. My ass is hurting.” 

“Well then go home,” Newt calls back to them. “No one invited you.” 

Thomas ducks his head and hides a smile.

“Well shit, man, tell us how you really feel,” Minho says, as he sits down beside Teresa and slips an arm around her shoulders to flick Gally in the ear with ostentatious fervor. 

“Besides,” Teresa says, “We’re here so that someone can fill out the witness report.” 

“Teresa!” Thomas shouts, to which she innocently shrugs and reaches around Minho to steal a cigarette out of his pocket. He lets her. 

“Also!” Sonya, now, chewing on an orange nail, “I’ll need a ride home, so, like. Don’t die.” 

“What?” Newt frowns, his legs tightening against Thomas’ hips as he struggles to remain comfortable on the bike. Thomas tries not to react too much. “Why? What happened to the vomit-mobil?” he says, which is his nickname for Sonya’s flower decaled van. 

“It’s in the shop,” Sonya says, shrugging. “Harriet thinks something’s bugged with the engine. I left it with her.” 

Newt swears under his breath, soft enough for only Thomas to hear. He squeezes the hand break a couple more times while Newt yell-talks with his sister. 

“How did you get here, then?”

“Teresa gave me a lift,” Sonya says. 

“Then why can’t you go back with her?”

Teresa comes to the rescue, “I have dinner with my parents in Salvation tonight,” she says. “It’s too out of the way.”

“Why can’t you take your sister home, Newt?” Aris asks, because behind those big green eyes and dusty freckles is an instigator. 

Thomas feels him tense again his back and Newt swears again, this time low enough that Thomas might not have heard before giving a vague and gruff answer of, “Because I’m busy later.”

Thomas, as mercy would have it, does not have to linger too long on the thought of what could be occupying Newt later as Sonya then leans into Aris and, not trying to be quiet in the slightest, sing-songs, “He has a _ daaate _.”

As their friends begin to wolf whistle and catcall, Thomas grips the handle bars and takes a deep breath through the cold, dark feeling that has settled in the bottom of his stomach. Newt is stiff against his back, and Thomas subliminally feels his gaze on the back of his neck. An image pops up suddenly of Newt at the diner, acting odd and almost constantly texting someone.

Thomas does his best to laugh along with the others unit Newt eventually has enough and swears at them all, passionate and thorough, to stop. 

They do, that be it eventually, and he and Thomas carry on with the lesson. They’re quiet from then on – or, rather, Thomas is quiet – and Newt gives easy instructions until Thomas is able to make it up and down the street at a regular pace without Newt’s help at all. Their friends have since lost interest but sometimes _ whoop _when he and Newt circle back, and in the last ten minutes newt hops off and makes Thomas ride on his own as he trails after him on foot, jogging to keep up when Thomas’ confidence eventually builds. 

When the sky turns a deep cerulean they file out until it is just Thomas and Newt standing in the middle of the empty street (Sonya managed to hitch a ride with Gally). Thomas stares off to the left, mind swimming in his head and counting palm trees until Newt clears his throat and says, “So. You did well.”

“Thanks,” Thomas says. 

“Did you need a ride back?” Newt asks, scratching the bridge of his nose.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. “Won’t you be late?” Newt shrugs. Thomas continues, “I’ll just walk, it isn’t far.” 

Newt opens his mouth, closes it, and then begins, “Tommy –”

“Really, Newt,” Thomas cuts him off, “It’s fine. Have fun on your date.” 

The words taste bitter and dry his mouth, so without looking back Thomas turns and walks off down the sidewalk, back toward home. 

The sun sets and Thomas feeds the cats – Barnacle, at least, is appreciative and works away at her bowl with happy little munching noises. Calypso, on the other hand, first scrutinises her meal with a critical eye as if not trusting Thomas to give her the correct food, before eventually deciding it is delectable and chowing down. Thomas rolls his eyes and runs a hand over her back as he walks past, which she allows. 

They’re both content and mellow tonight, probably still buttered up over their morning dose of Newt. Thomas is happy for them, and even happier he that he doesn’t have to deal with Barnacle’s neediness and Calypso’s ever-present temperamental nature for the night, as he is very much not in the mood. Thomas leaves them to their devices and retires into the house, making sure to keep the wall length glass door open for them to scamper in after him when they please. 

He’d just thrown himself on the couch with a quick mutter for the TV to switch on when his phone chimes in his pocket. 

Thomas sighs. The night is the sort of hazy summer evening where nothing feels particularly real. He contorts his spine and gazes blankly at the screen where a talk show host interviews a television star Thomas has never seen or heard of, their voices swimming from ear to ear as the queued laughter of the audience bounces around the room, the chimes adding to the cloudy ambiance. The light in the corner bathes the room in gold. 

His phone rings twice more before it begins to vibrate and a robotic voice reads his mother’s caller ID out to him, and Thomas then scrambles into an upright position as if she can somehow see him, and he is doing something wrong. 

“Hi, mom,” Thomas tries his best not to gasp into the receiver, heart pounding. 

His mother answers over a heady bass which comes through the receiver in a hard rumble. “Hi, sweetie!” she says, “Sorry, I meant to call earlier but time just got away from us.”

Thomas shrugs even though she can’t see him, not particularly upset about it. 

“It’s cool,” he says, just as someone whoops very loudly in the background over a microphone screech. Thomas raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re having fun. Not getting up to any trouble, I hope?” 

His mom scoffs. He can see her clearly in his mind: eyes rolling and hip cocking to lean against a wall or table or bench, arm crossed over her chest and smirking. “That’s my line,” she says. “Are you?”

Thomas sighs and allows himself to slide a little back down the couch, “No, mom. I’ve been a perfect couch potato. The world outside doesn’t tempt me one bit.”

“You know we never said you couldn’t leave the house, right?”

“Just don’t get high on a beach?”

“Thomas.”

“I’m _ kidding _,” he says.

His mother hums. He barely hears her over the heavy guitar that has just begun to play in the background. 

Thomas winces as it screeches through the earpiece like a strange siren, and asks, “Seriously, where are you?”

“Oh.” She groans, “This bar your father and his business buddies wanted to visit. It smells like my ill-advised teenage years. He’s having fun, at least.”

“Why don’t you just leave?” Thomas asks. 

She says, “Because Ganymede is a cinderblock rat maze, honey. Everyone dresses the same and thinks and does the same thing. I don’t get why your father likes it here so much, it’s so.” She pauses, “Stale and lifeless. I guess it’s where he grew up, but. _Eugh_.” 

Thomas can’t help but laugh. His mother has never been shy about her displeasure of any sector other than Callisto, bordering on pompousness, in the past and surely never will. She is particularly vocal about it to Thomas’ father and lets him know regularly that Sector C is far superior, being the first and oldest of the moons. He argues back, and they bicker. It keeps their relationship spicy, or something gross like that. 

“Well. You’ve only got another week and a half,” Thomas reminds her. 

“You’re right.” She swears. “I need another drink. Hope you’re having more fun than I am.” 

“Oh yeah, just me and good ol’ Jamie,” Thomas says, gesturing to the talk-show host who is currently laughing way too loud with his head thrown back, “and the cats.” 

His mother responds after a pause, “You know you’re allowed to enjoy yourself, Thomas. You aren’t under house arrest.”

“No, but I’m still grounded, right?”

“Which is your own fault,” she says, and Thomas can hear the frown in her voice. He groans, “_ I know,” _ over her saying, “But. It’s still summer, and I want you to enjoy yourself. Invite someone over tonight, if you want. But if I find a single bottle missing from the cabinet I will –”

“Feed me to Calypso, I know.” Thomas sighs, “Yeah, mom, sure.” 

“Minho or Teresa –”

“Yeah.”

“Or Newt –”

“_ Yes _, mom,” Thomas snaps, and the guilt instantly settles uncomfortably in his stomach. 

She is quiet again for a moment, and she and Thomas linger in silence listening to the heavy bass of the band until Thomas hears his father’s distinct Ganymedean accent call out, “Amelia! Where’ve you gone?”

“I’m here!” Thomas’ mother calls back, “I’m just talking to Thomas, I’ll be right over. Sorry, hon, I have to go.” 

“Okay.”

“Talk to you later in the week, probably. Tomorrow is pretty full, and the next day I’m giving a speech at the observatory.”

“It’s fine. Tell dad I say hi,” Thomas says. “Now go. Have fun. Don’t get too crazy, I know how dad can be sometimes.”

“Yeah,” she says, “It’s where you get it from.”

“No,” Thomas grins, “Pretty sure I get everything from you. Charm, good looks, a magnet to trouble. I’ve heard the stories. Pretty hypocritical of you, mom.” 

“What?” Amelia says, “Sorry, honey, the band’s too loud! I have to go now, bye!” 

The line cuts off, and Thomas listens to the dial tone for a handful of second, smiling. 

Thomas is reminded of the chime of messages he received before the call when he drops the phone onto his lap and looks down at the two of them from Teresa. He swears and opens them quickly. 

The first reads, _ Ugh, dad has food poisoning so we aren’t going out tonight after all. _ And the second, two minutes later, _ Wanna go for a joyride? _

Thomas texts, _ Sorry just got these. _

_ S’ok, _ Teresa texts back a minute later.

_ Still up? _

_ Sure, if you are, _ Teresa says.

Thomas says, _ We can still go to Salvation, if you want _.

The reply from Teresa is fast, and it says, _ Isn’t that where Newt is, tho? _

And_ . _

Teresa knows. 

Thomas has never told her verbally, but she knows. 

She knows Thomas, given their history, painfully well, and probably even knew before Thomas knew himself. Before he acknowledged the feelings he was experiencing for what they were and put a name to them. Before the denial shortly followed by the panic shortly followed by the neutral apathy set in, before Thomas tried to will those feelings away with the pure strength of mind. 

For a good, solid two days he disillusioned himself into believing it was working. But then Newt strolled into the library in the mid-afternoon with a pencil behind his ear and a binder under his arm, loos hairs hanging around his face and tousled as he’d just come from the athletics field. He was smiling at whatever joke Minho had been making at the time. Thomas watched, transfixed as they approached his table to commence their usual weekly study session, heart beating and blood pumping in his hears. Newt met his eyes and his smile turned brighter and wider, eyes crinkling in the corners as they do whenever he smiles so wide that it takes over his entire face, and it was all over from then. 

Thomas texts back, _ Let's go anyway. _

– 

Teresa skips across the road to Thomas, very un-subtly buzzed. Thomas leans against the mustang and watches her hop across in her platform sandals with an eyebrow raised. 

“Did you bring enough for the whole class?” he asks. 

Teresa narrows her eyes at him. “You’re driving,” she says, “and I can only handle you driving while high, so.”

She does a bow. Thomas shrugs, and Teresa rounds the front of the car to hop into the passenger’s side without opening the door. Thomas winces in behalf of the leather and carpet against the ribbed sole of her shoes. He hops in after her, stopping to make sure her seat belt is buckled correctly before taking off. About halfway into the trip he notices Teresa dubiously eyeing the screwdriver violently lodged into the keyhole of the car, but she says nothing. 

Salvation is the epicenter of Callisto, the downtown district of the sector. It is also where the first humans landed after they fled the Old Planet, and lived before they colonised Ganymede, Io, and Europa and created the sectors and the colony of the four moons. It is wild and vibrant and bursting with life and colour.

Tonight, the town is, no surprise, filled to the brim with activity; people dining and shopping, kids running in the square between the lit-up water fountains, and all-round enjoying the warm summer night. The lights above the main strip are Thomas’ favourite part of the area apart from the beaches. They’re strung twenty feet up in the air from building to building, crossing over in a diamond pattern as the lights flash and twinkle above their heads like a thousand stars. 

Thomas smiles over the wind in his hair and the music thrumming from the radio of the car that Teresa insists on turning up louder. People here are used to sound that never ends and thrums through your body like a heavy bass of frequency that is always in tune with your bloodstream, and always present.

Teresa sings along to the radio and Thomas tugs at the cuff of her flared jeans to pull her feet off the dash. She complies easy enough, except the next thing he knows she is standing up, hands gripping the top of the windscreen. Teresa closes her eyes and gives herself over to the wind; head thrown back and eyes shut, hair billowing behind her like a scarf made of silk. It isn’t exactly what he meant to happen, but at least she’s having fun. 

Thomas hooks a finger into the beltloop of her jeans, just in case she gets any wild ideas about letting go, and they drive on. 

Eventually, the beach comes into view, and Thomas parks the car beside one of the ice cream stalls. The beach is one of the few areas of Sector C where the veil is the thinnest, which allows the stars in the galaxy to shine brighter than any other part of the moon, reflecting off the water. To the right the Great Planet looms, grand and imposing while off to the left the faint outline of Saturn hangs just on the horizon line, ready to dip out of view in an hour or so. 

Thomas buys a hot dog for himself and a medium box of chips for Teresa. He swallows it in one go, having missed dinner, and chats in between bites with Teresa as she slowly chips away at her food. 

“Afraid they’ll bite back?” he says when she is taking too long to go through them. Teresa narrows her eyes and smiles mockingly, shoving one chip in his mouth before kicking off her shoes and turning to begin down the sloped path to the beach. Thomas follows her quietly, a few paces behind.

They pick a spot between land and shore to settle. Thomas kicks his shoes off, too, tieing the laces and rolling the cuffs of his jeans up, enjoying the feeling of sand between his toes. 

Teresa drums on the cardboard, and chews on the end of a small chip. 

Thomas bumps his shoulder to hers, and asks, “You okay?”

“Hm?” Teresa blinks, tearing her eyes away from the ocean and looking at him like she’d briefly forgotten he was there. “Yeah, just. I don’t know. Not hungry, maybe? Still baked? I feel bad, you didn’t have to buy this for me.” 

“You need food,” Thomas says. 

“_ You need food _,” Teresa mimics, staring down at her knees. She sighs, and places the box between them. “You have some, I can’t finish them all.” 

Thomas tentatively takes a chip, and they eat in silence. The sea breeze is cool tonight, and Thomas is pleased. Sometimes the engineers’ program it too high, and the result blows sand absolutely _ everywhere _. It is another part of Earth Realism that Thomas couldn’t care less for. 

After ten minutes the box is finished and Teresa is staring out at the water again, lips pressed with a slight frown in the centre of her forehead. Thomas reaches around obnoxiously to poke at it, and says, “You look like you’re waiting for something to jump out of the water.” 

“I feel like I’m waiting for _ something _, at least,” she responds, whacking Thomas’ hand away. 

“Like what?”

Teresa shrugs. “A storm, maybe. There’s something there,” she says, suddenly leaning over and pointing at the ocean. 

“Where?”

“On the horizon. Right there, do you see it?”

Thomas squints, barely making out some kind of object just over the water line. “An … ice spire?” he says. 

Teresa purses her lips, “It doesn’t look like ice.”

“I think you’re still high,” Thomas says. 

“I _ am _ still high,” she responds, shooting him a glare, “but something’s there.”

“I don’t see anything, Teresa.”

Teresa says, “You never see anything.”

Thomas pauses. “What is that supposed to …?” he begins, but she’s already moved on, staring down at his hip with a deep frown. 

Pointing at it wearily, she asks, “Hey, Tom, why is your butt glowing?”

With a startling jolt, Thomas looks down at his hip and, sure enough the crystal he’d grabbed off the nightstand last-minute is glowing a bright, vibrant amber. 

“Uh …” Thomas mumbles, pulling it out of his pocket with haste. 

The sphere shines brighter when in contact with his skin, tiny glittery lights drawing into his touch like moths to a flame. They flash green a moment, and then white a moment after, before turning back to amber. 

Thomas’ phone begins to ring. 

Newt’s caller ID flashes on screen when he digs it out of his other pocket, and Thomas does nothing but stare at his phone for prolonged moments, dumbfounded. All this time he’d somehow managed to forget all about Newt and his date. Now, it all comes crashing back. That sick, cold feeling remanifests itself in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Newt’s name on his phone and for one crazy moment he wants to get up and hurl it into the ocean. 

Teresa’s hair tickles his arm as she leans over to see who it is, given Thomas’ strange, paused reaction. When she does, in fact, see the name she gasps in shock, gapes at him and slaps him in the shoulder – _ hard _ – and whispers, “Answer it!” like Newt could somehow already hear them. 

Thomas does stand up, however, instead of over arming the device into the black waves and, much to the disappointment of Teresa, who boos him, walks a few paces away before answering. 

“Hello?” Thomas begins, weary, at a loss with what to expect. 

“Sonya!” Newt’s voice bellows over the other end, loud and filled to the brim with annoyance far too overdone to be sincere. 

“Uh. What?” 

Newt says, “What do you mean _ what? _Why are you calling me?”

Thomas frowns. “You called me. _ Me _, Newt, not –”

“Yes, I know.” 

This gives him pause. Thomas folds one arm over his chest and walks further down the beach. “Is everything, uh. Okay?”

“What do you mean?” Newt says, and his tone has now shifted to concern. “Is everything okay with you?” 

_ What? _“Yeah, Newt, why are you –”

“What happened?” Newt cuts him off. “Are you hurt? Sonya, tell me where you are.” 

Thomas raises an eyebrow, finally cluing in. Newt rarely calls his sister by what everyone else calls her, but maybe whoever he is with wouldn’t recognise a _ Lizzy _. He feels the corners of his lips begin to stretch upwards as he asks, “So the date’s going well, I take it?” 

“I can’t hear you.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “I’m at the beach. With Teresa,” he adds, just because.

“Alright. _ Shit _. Listen, I’m coming to get you, stay right where you are,” Newt says, and then fainter to someone near him, “I’m sorry, my sister’s in trouble. I have to go.” 

An even fainter voice on the other end speaks back, and Thomas grows rigid, “Yeah, of course, I understand. Did you want to raincheck or –”

Newt puts all the haste and stress into his voice that he can muster, “I have to go now, sorry.” 

Thomas involuntarily smiles, again.

A few seconds pass. Thomas toes at the sand with his bare feet and listens to the sound of Newt power-walking away from his date before he finally speaks again. 

“Fuck.” 

“You’re welcome,” Thomas says. 

“Thanks, Tommy,” Newt breathes, and the sound of his boots crunching against the ground stop. “That was a disaster.” 

“Are you okay?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Fine. He just –” A car drives past, hissing loudly in the receiver, “He kept talking about quantum physics while trying to feel me up under the table, it was really weird.”

“Quantum physics?” Thomas asks, voluntarily not hearing the second half of the sentence. 

“I don’t know, I tuned out around the beginning of the angular momentum lecture.” Newt says, “So …”

“So,” Thomas agrees. 

“You’re at the beach?”

“Ya-huh.”

“With Teresa,”

“Ya-huh.” 

Newt says, “Cool.”

Thomas says, “Actually it’s pretty warm tonight.”

Newt begins to laugh; that wheezing, unbelievable one and Thomas is set off, too, and the both of them laugh over the phone while Thomas stands in the middle of a dark, empty beach with Teresa just out of hearing range, at eleven o’clock at night. 

“_ Ugh _,” Newt groans and Thomas couldn’t agree more. “Quantum physics, Tommy!”

“Yeah, on the first date, too!” 

This sets them off again. After a minute when they’ve both calmed down, and Newt has begun to walk again, he says, “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Tommy, I just –”

“It’s okay,” Thomas says, not wanting to hear the reason. “It’s really no big deal. Who was he, anyway?”

“No one,” Newt says dismissively, and Thomas hears the faint sound of the bike engine come to life. The deep rumble reminds him traitorously of this morning, but oddly calming at the same time. Thomas looks up and scans the length of the strip leading upward from the beach as if he expects to find Newt hanging out between the food trucks, aloof and undisturbed. For a second he considers giving him their location, but instead what comes out is, “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Newt’s engine revs harder, and he says, “See you tomorrow, Tommy. And. Thanks.”

“For what?” Thomas asks. 

“For picking up,” Newt says like it’s obvious. Thomas says goodbye and ends the call, walking back to Teresa with a lightness in his step. The look on her face when he returns is concerned, her buzz very much worn off. 

“Good?” She asks when Thomas extends a hand to help her up. She’s clutching her arms, now, goosebumps visible in the pale moonlight. Thomas hands her his jacket. 

He nods. “Yeah.” 

They walk back to the car with their hands in their pockets, barefoot and unsteady back on the hard ground. Thomas watches Teresa until she disappears through her front door before he feels content to go inside. The last thing Thomas sees before his heavy eyes shut is the crystal glowing a deep, clear violet, micro-crystals floating inside of it in calming circles. 

He is woken by Minho instead of the cats the following morning, which is a strange and vaguely unwelcome change. Fish swim between the curves of the 3 in 9:30 when Thomas blinks his eyes open to the sound of his phone’s automated voice telling him, “_ One new message from Minho _.” 

He groans, rolling on to his stomach.

“Read message,” Thomas says, pressing his face into the soft cotton pillow. 

The robotic voice complies and begins to read the message in a cheerful monotone. “_ Hey, Spaceman _ ,” she says, “ _ Get your CENSORED down here and open the door, I lost my CENSORED key and Newt didn’t bring his. You sleep like the CENSORED dead.” _

Thomas’ eyes open wide. His mind, quickly crashing into consciousness, runs through the mental calendar of the day’s events in a panic. After a minute Thomas concludes that, no, he hasn’t forgotten anything, and his two best friends have woken him up for absolutely no reason at all. 

They are also standing at his front door, getting crankier by the minute. 

It is far too early for this. 

Thomas rolls out of bed and manages to tug on a pair of shorts (even though Minho and Newt have seen him in less over the course of their friendship, but a fully presentable Thomas is a luxury he is not about to offer them for waking him up) leaving his chest bare, and trudges down the stairs as quickly as possible. When he pulls open the door it is to an expectedly irritated Minho and Newt, however now he sees that it is mostly to do with the heatwave plaguing the town outside the parameters of his nice, temperature-controlled home, and only a little to do with Thomas leaving them standing there while he snoozed away and they blew up his phone. 

In his defense, selective hearing is a personality trait. 

“Fuck,” Thomas hisses, two seconds upon opening the door. 

“No shit,” Minho says and shoves past Thomas to enter the house. Thomas glances at Newt who continues to linger in the doorway, cheeks flushed red. He gives Thomas a quick smile and follows after Minho, leaving Thomas to tug the large yellow door shut. 

“What’s up?” Thomas asks, coming into the foyer to see that Barnacle has appeared out of nowhere and is now resting on Newt’s shoulder, happily. Calypso is nowhere to be found, Thomas notes, seeing the way Minho’s eyes scope the room nervously for her presence. 

“We’re going out today,” Minho says, tearing his eyes away from the chandelier as if the wildcat would be perched above it, waiting to strike. Minho’s always been more of a dog person. 

Thomas hooks a thumb over his shoulder, and says, “In that?”

“The temperature should be cooler by the beach,” Newt says, lovingly scratching Barnacle behind the ear as she purrs and nuzzles his cheek. 

“Why are we going to the beach?”

“Because,” Minho says, staring at Newt and the little black cat in disgust, “I have a surprise.” 

Thomas stares between the two – Newt, now making kissy noises and Minho leaning against the hallway side table with his arms crossed, looking more stressed as the minutes stretch on and he doesn’t know where Calypso is – dubiously. Barnacle buries her nose in Newt’s hair, whiskers tickling his ear and making him laugh. 

He should have put a shirt on. 

“What is the surprise?” Thomas asks, crossing his arms. 

As Minho begins to lecture him on the meaning of the word _ Surprise _, Newt turns away from Barnacle for a split second to say, “A street race.” 

Thomas blinks. “I’m not racing the mustang.”

“What?” Minho frowns, “No, are you nuts? Of course not. I’m racing.” 

“You’re not racing the mustang, either!”

“I’m not talking about your fucking mustang! I’m racing mine.”

“You have a mustang?”

“No one has a mustang!”

“Thomas does,” Newt says, now cradling Barnacle in his arms like a baby. 

Minho sighs, “Yes, thank you, Newt.”

“Well, his father anyway.” 

“It doesn’t ma – _ aah! _” Minho screams, jumping away from the wall and practically leaping through the air as Calypso prowls down the railing of the stairs like a circus performer and lands right beside his feet. 

Newt laughs as Calypso struts her way over to him with her tail haughtily in the air, running a hand over her back which makes her purr. 

Minho swears, practically hiding behind Thomas, who is trying very hard to keep a straight face. “Fucking cat whisperer. Can we please just go?”

Thomas spins around, “I’m not going out in _ that _.” 

Minho rolls his eyes. “It’s not that bad! Stop being a baby and I’ll buy you a beer later. Huh? What do you say?” 

Thomas stares him down, contemplating the pros and cons of leaving the house and braving the heat for whatever crazy adventure it is that Minho has planned. Eventually, he decides the former outweighs the latter, sighs, and asks, “What are we doing, exactly?” 

Minho grins and claps Thomas on the back before launching into an explanation of how Brenda’s uncle, who owns the garage she and Harriet work at, lent them some cars with new comet powered engines he’s been working on that need to be test driven before he can move on to stage 2; i.e. putting them on the market. Why he trusted a bunch of teenagers with a blind eye for danger with his cars Thomas will never know. However, he has never officially met Brenda’s uncle but has heard that he is on the cooler side of the spectrum of familial relatives, and is curious. 

“So?” Minho asks, expectantly, “What do you think?”

“Yeah sure, whatever. Sounds fun,” Thomas says, unable to match Minho’s level of enthusiasm. 

“Keep that energy,” Minho deadpans. “And put a shirt on. I’ll be in the car. Newt?”

They both look down at Newt, who has sat down on the floor and is now playing with the cats; Barnacle pawing at his hand while Calypso tries to push him over. “I’ll meet you there,” he says, playfully batting at the leopard. 

“Sure. If I find cat hair all over my car, you’re cleaning it up.” 

Newt salutes him as he leaves to wait outside. Thomas lingers until Newt looks up from the love fest on the floor and gives him a grin. “What?” he asks, voice bubbling. 

“Nothing,” Thomas says, grinning back. “Be back in a minute, but before I go …” Thomas trails off and quickly pads into the living room where he has left the laptop connected to the paint bombs set in the corners of The Wall, ready for another go. He sets the laptop in front of Newt. 

“For the wall,” he tells Newt’s questioning expression, pushing Barnacle away as she attempts to block the screen on pure kitty instinct. “Pick a colour. Any colour. I’m gonna go change.” 

He leaves Newt in the middle of the hall with a laptop and an entire wall of the house at his mercy, staring at the screen with deep interest, eyes squinting and lips moving as he reads through the paint names. Thomas gins and climbs the stairs. 

He dresses fast, swapping jeans for shorts and digs around the find one particular dark green shirt that he tells himself is because it is well suited for the hot weather, and not because Newt once complimented him when he happened to be wearing it. Grabbing a pair of sunglasses and, turning away from the mirror, his eyes land on the opalescent sphere glimmering mint greens, blues and whites, and decides to take it with him. 

His living room wall is a light green when he returns; a paint shade named Ivy League. Thomas scrunches his nose at the colour, and Newt grins, smug. 

Minho talks their ears off the entire way to the beach. It isn’t unusual but today he comes off more chipper than ordinary. Newt opted to ride in the back with Thomas for more legroom rather than shotgun, and occasionally the two will glance at each other with knowing looks and grin. 

The beach is situated on a near-empty stretch just past Salvation, on the way to the monument. Crystal blue waters are juxtaposed almost harshly by the miles of desert sand and hills that complete the unused corner of the sector. The cars parked on the strip mirror the night of the meteor shower but with far more elbow room, which quells Thomas’ apprehension almost immediately. 

Minho drives slow with the windows down, occasionally sticking his head out of it to shout at someone he knows. On Thomas’ right, Newt’s elbow brushes his own purposefully, and when he looks over Newt points out the window to the beach down below – the hard, flat sand is marked with tires tracks, and the dozens of people who have heard about the cars have turned up to watch the show. 

Thomas focuses on Newt. 

It’s kind of funny to see him right at this very moment; cool and relaxed and grinning, carefree, as Minho scouts for a parking space. The wind from the open window ruffles his hair and shirt open to reveal lightly tanned skin, held down by sunglasses hanging off a button. It’s the first time in a long time that Thomas has been him sans jacket and motorbike. It makes him look younger somehow, and reminds Thomas of the summers they spent together as kids, riding to the beach on their bikes and walking all over the town at all hours of the day and night, not a single care in the world. 

He wonders what Newt will do with his year off. Thomas can see him meeting him and Minho after school, accompanying them to the diner, or back to whoever’s house. Thomas will come by Minho’s house on the weekends and find he and Newt engaged in killing each other in a video game as usual. 

He’ll meet Newt at the mall, or the beach on Friday nights. Newt will answer his phone at 1 AM when Thomas can’t sleep because he is freaking out over final exams and his lungs won't let him sleep, and Newt will talk to him with that low, soothing voice he develops in the early hours of the morning, because he has already been through it and Thomas will get through it, too. 

Nothing much will change, really. They will carry on the same, just a little different. 

Minho finds a spot and they get out. 

Down below, Harriet and Brenda are prepping cars with a man who Thomas assumes is Brenda’s uncle. Brenda rests her elbows against the open window of one of the cars, leaning in to speak to whoever is inside. Harriet stands a little way away bent over an open hood. When they descend onto the sand and approach the gathering, Thomas notices that she looks stressed. 

“Morning, all,” Newt greets. In reply Harriet steps back and slams the hood of the car down with a huff, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead and groaning, loudly. Sonya, previously hidden by the hood, gives her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. 

“Is everything okay?” Thomas asks. 

Harriet brushes baby hairs off her face, trapped by a bandana wrapped tight around her head, and says, “No. This is a bad idea.”

“Are they …” Minho begins, eyeing the car dubiously, “going to blow?”

Harriet glares. “No, they are not going to _ blow _. I just don’t think giving experimental comet power engines over to a bunch of reckless – no offense – morons is the smartest idea.”

Minho presses a hand to his heart. “You wound me, angel,” he says. “Relax, no one’s going to drive into the ocean.”

Sonya says, “Famous last words,” just as Newt leans into Thomas and whispers, “Five bucks he dents the car.”

“Deal,” Thomas whispers back, and they shake. 

Minho scrunches his nose. “Hilarious, all of you.” 

Sand crunches to the left, and Thomas turns to see Brenda approaching, bag slung over her shoulder. “Deep breaths, everyone,” she says, “Nothing’s going to happen. But in case it does –” Brenda digs into the bag and pulls out a shiny red helmet, thrusting it towards Minho, “This is for you.”

Sonya snorts and tries to cover it with a cough. Minho takes the helmet, disdainfully. Harriet Looks stressed. 

Brenda gives her a tired look, “Oh please calm down.”

“Calm down?” Harriet bites, “Do you want to take a look around?” 

Newt grabs Thomas and Minho by the shoulders and steers them away. In doing so they nearly walk right into Brenda’s uncle. He is admittedly far taller than Thomas expected him to be, with eyes the colour of dark chocolate and a face lined with the beginnings of age. His expression is stern but holds a certain gleam of excitement that cancels it out. 

“Boys,” he chirps, slinging an oily rag over his shoulder, “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

Minho grins, “Is your memory tapping out on you, old man?”

The man’s expression drops at the sound of Minho’s voice. His lip curls in annoyance, and he says, “I was talking to them. I’m Jorge.”

Jorge holds both of his hands out for Thomas and Newt to shake, which they do while replying with their names in unison. 

“Good to meet you,” he says, beaming, before flicking his gaze toward Minho and pointing towards one of the cars. “Go get ready. It’s as hot as Venus’ asshole out here and I’m not paying you to stand around and look pretty.” 

Minho grins, “You think I look pretty? Aw, shucks, man.” 

Jorge looks like he’s developing a headache. “Like a daisy. Go. _ Now _.”

Minho salutes and leaves. Thomas watches him go. So, he is getting paid to drive around an experimental comet power engine for twenty minutes? No wonder he is so excited. 

“Are you boys racing today?”

Thomas begins, “No –”

“How much are we talking?” Newt asks, folding his arms over his chest. 

Jorge raises an eyebrow. “Who said there’s a price?”

“You. Just now.” 

Jorge waves a hand in the direction Minho left. “That one is a special case. Need to cover my bases, you know?” 

Thomas raises his palms, “It’s okay, we don’t –”

“Tommy is a good a driver,” Newt says, slinging an arm around his neck. “You can use some controlled variables. We can test out those engines for you, too. For a small fee.” 

Jorge stares between the two of them for a long moment during which Thomas worries they’ve stepped out of line, but before he can attempt to backpedal them out of it the man laughs; deep bellied and boisterous. Brenda appears and worms her way between Thomas and Newt, threading her arms through both of their elbows. 

“Everything okay over here?” she asks, not sounding particularly concerned. 

Jorge points at Newt and says, “I like this one. Tell you what, _ hermano, _I’ll let you drive today and as a reward, you can have one free tune-up next time you’re in the shop. Only one, though, I am still trying to run a business.” 

Newt says, “I don’t have a car, but Tommy here will take you up on that offer.” 

“You’re driving?” Brenda asks them both, sounding excited. Thomas opens and closes his mouth, unsure how it is he got himself into this situation, dreaming about being back in bed. 

Newt looks at him over the top of Brenda’s head, eyes asking a question. Thomas sighs and gives in to the circumstance, and murmurs, “Sure. Who am I to turn down free service?”

Jorge claps him on the shoulder. Brenda steers them toward the line up of cars. 

“We can only have two on the course at a time for safety reasons, so you guys will have to wait until last,” she says, which Thomas is totally cool with. 

Minho is already waiting by a sleek two-door Nissan, practically rocking on the balls of his feet. Beside him in the line up is Gally, looking equally as impatient. Harriet walks between the two and counts a list on her fingers while Sonya follows her like a shadow, rubbing her shoulders as if she will be the one to drive. 

“Okay!” Brenda shouts, clapping her hands and making everyone turn sharply toward her. “It’s time, guys. Strap yourselves in and get ready.” 

“Try not to get lost,” Gally tells Minho. 

Minho narrows his eyes back at him, and says, “Try not to cry when you lose.”

Gally laughs. “It’s cute you think you’re going to beat me.” 

“How about,” Sonya begins, coming to stand beside Minho and levelling Gally with a challenging look, “we bet on it?”

Newt grins. “Good idea. What do you say, Gal?”

Gally narrows his eyes, looking between the four of them with growing interest before his eyes finally stop on Minho. “Okay,” he says, “What are the terms?” 

Minho purses his lips, thinking, and after a moment replies, “I’ll let you know after I win,” and turns to walk back to his allocated vehicle. 

“That’s –” Gally squawks, “That’s bullshit, that isn’t fair. Hey –” he follows Minho, who is calmly ignoring him, and Thomas hides a laugh behind his fist. Newt shakes his head and they walk over to a short, chest height rock where a handful of people are gathered. Among them are Teresa and Rachel, who Thomas hadn’t seen when they arrived, seated on the rock. Rachel looks apprehensive but serious. Teresa watches Minho and Gally argue with a slight frown. 

“Morning,” Thomas greets.

“Hey,” Teresa responds, eyes darting over to Newt for a split second before they train on Thomas. Rachel waves, disinterested, as her eyes scan the beach. She’s never been Thomas’ biggest fan, exactly. 

(Sonya says it’s because of their astrology signs. 

Thomas says it’s because of that time in 6th grade when he accidentally got gum stuck in her thick, black hair and she had to have it cut. 

But it could be either one.) 

“What’s up?” Newt asks, after a beat, like his teeth caught on his bottom lip and he stumbled into them. 

Teresa says, “Waiting for the show to begin,” while Rachel says, at the same time, “Waiting for these bozos to hurry up so it can be my turn.”

“You’re driving?” Thomas asks. 

Rachel laughs. “Hell yeah.” 

“Hell no,” Teresa says, picking at her chipped nail polish.

“Really?” Thomas grins, “I just assumed, with your lack of a licence and all …”

Teresa goes to kick him and he doges it, laughing and slipping around Newt. 

“Smartass,” Teresa says. Then she pats the space on the rock beside her and says, “I’ll make room for you. Aris bought popcorn.”

Thomas says, “Actually I’ll be running a track.” 

Teresa almost falls off the rock. “You’re not.”

“He is,” Rachel says, “I heard Brenda say it.”

“Oh, that isn’t a good idea.” 

“I can drive,” Thomas starts, “I can – Newt says so.” Thomas claps Newt on the shoulder, and he starts. “Right?” 

“Uh.” Newt blinks. 

“I can _ drive _.”

“You can, of course.” Newt says, looking at Teresa and leaning into Thomas, “He can drive. You’ll see.” 

“Okay guys,” Rachel says, waving at them, “Shut up now, they’re getting ready.” 

Thomas turns back toward the cars just in time to see Minho disappear into the Nissan and Gally into the convertible. Newt’s hand slips around his wrist, and Thomas allows himself to be pulled toward the starting line. Harriet is standing in the middle of the two, alternating between them as she gives each driver various instructions. 

To Gally she says, “Please refrain from stomping on the breaks. If you need to drift … don’t.”

Coming over to Minho, she grips the edge of the open window and says, “Do _ not _ flood the gas. If you flood the gas, I will kill you.”

Minho raises his palms to her, “I know, I know!”

“Drive, test the engines – we know, Har,” Gally says, revving the engine as he does and making her sigh. 

“We ready?” Brenda says, coming out from behind them with a red scarf around her wrist. 

“Ready as ever!” Minho chirps. 

“Oh!” Harriet cries, just as Brenda gets into position at the starting line, “Try not to blow a tire!”

“It’s a beach,” Minho says, “That’s in Jupiter’s hands, now.” 

Thomas and Newt clap Minho on the shoulders and run to re-join Teresa and Rachel by the rock. Aris has joined them, now, sitting beside Rachel with a big bag of popcorn that he passes to Teresa, and Ben, who finishes up talking with Gally and jogs over to join them, settling between Rachel’s legs. Jorge does one final inspection of the cars before giving Brenda the thumbs up and leaving to watch from the side, biting his thumb in anticipation. 

Newt is all nervous energy beside Thomas. He can feel the excitement radiating off his skin in waves as they watch Brenda raise her arms above her head, red scarf blowing in the wind, and shout, “Ready!” a moment before bringing it down fast and yelling, “_ Go! _”

The cars speed off on either side of her in a cloud of dust. Brenda’s hair whirls wildly around her face as she spins, laughing as Minho and Gally take off down the beach. Everyone rears back in shock, and Thomas gasps, heart thumping as he watches them go. The speed is like nothing he has ever seen before. The cars race each other head-to-head, wavering a little in the beginning as their drivers get a grip of it. The exhaust pipes spit out what looks like iridescent fire, the comet power engine coming to life. 

Newt grips Thomas’ arm and swears, his hair brushing against Thomas’ cheek. The cars do their route, turning the corner in a way which makes Thomas’ heart leap into his throat, making everyone gasp and cry. Gally’s car drifts a little at the start of the turn and Minho’s at the end of it but, when they both reach the end of the track, Minho is the one ultimately in the lead. 

Brenda pulls the scarf down again when they return, Gally’s car speeding past the finish line a hair’s breath after the Nissan, and the crowd loses it. 

The beach explodes in an array of cheers and shouts, and colours flap in the air as people wave about their shirts, towels and beach ponchos in celebration. 

Newt grabs Thomas’ hand again and together they start off toward Minho, now climbing out of the car on shaky legs. Teresa and the others tail closely behind. Thomas and Newt are unable to hold themselves back from throwing their arms around Minho, colliding with him like two meteors. He falls back against the car with a shout of surprise which he soon shakes himself out of quick enough to return the hug, laugh breathless. Harriet and Jorge instantly begin checking on the engines. 

“What the fuck was that?” Minho gasps, hands gripping both of their shirts. 

“How do you feel?” Newt asks, pulling away. He begins to look Minho over like he’s checking for any defects.

“How was it?” Thomas prompts, too. 

“I don’t know,” Minho says, honestly, “It was over in thirty seconds.” 

A groan from behind alerts them, and the three turn to see Gally in a similar state to Minho, being held up by Ben and Rachel. Teresa throws her arms around Minho’s neck, now that he’s free, and whispers, “That was amazing.” 

Sonya leans beside him and gives him a small hip bump, grinning. “It was pretty impressive.”

“Who won? Was it me?” Gally asks. 

Brenda grins maniacally. “Sadly, you didn’t. It was close, though!” 

Thomas turns to Minho, expecting him to look victorious, but finds him quiet and still a little pale. Thomas rubs his shoulder and gives him air. Gally brushes hair out of his face with a shaky hand, eyes flicking up to Minho. 

“Alright,” Rachel pipes up, circling around to Ben, “Our turn now. Unless you guys want another go.” 

“_ No, _” Minho and Gally say in unison.

“Sweet,” Ben says, reaching over to take Rachel’s hand, “Saddle us up, Har!”

“Saddle yourself up,” Harriet mumbles, intensely checking the engine as Jorge does the same with the other, both of their foreheads beading with sweat. 

“Everything okay?” Brenda asks her uncle and Harriet, who are now gently closing the hoods.

“Yeah,” Harriet says, sounding out of breath, “Everything’s fine.” 

Jorge makes an OK sign with his fingers, smile beaming across his face. “Ready to go again. Gear up, ladies and gentlemen!”

Gally wipes a hand down his face and sighs. 

“Alright, well that was,” he says, waving at the air, “_ Yeah _. C’mon, Park, let's go get our eighty bucks.” 

Minho leaves to follow Gally, stumbling on uneasy feet as Ben and Rachel get into position. Everyone else moves out of the way once again, and after a minute of Harriet checking and re-checking the engine _ just _ to be extra sure, and Brenda yelling at Rachel to stop kissing Ben through the window of his test car and get into her own, they’re off. 

Sand and dust kick up at them in a cloud of smoke as they turn away, making Thomas sneeze. Teresa has gone to stand with Brenda and Jorge so, with her rock empty, Thomas and Newt make a claim of it and jump up. Rachel and Ben take it slower than Minho and Gally had done, possibly via suggestion from Harriet, and instead joy ride around the track. Newt drums his fingers against his knee in a figment of a piano theme and hums. It’s a melody he’s heard before, a very old tune, one from earth. It calms Thomas’ apprehensive nerves. 

A low vibration accompanied by a distinct infra-sound catches Thomas’ attention and he turns his gaze skyward. A shuttle is making its way across the sky above them, pale blue against the sector’s atmosphere. Thomas touches his shoulder to Newt’s and points. 

“New shipment coming in,” he says. 

Newt squints upward and hums vaguely. “It’s come from the east. From Ganymede.”

For a moment Thomas’ heartbeat spikes thinking his parents have come home early, but then he remembers the selfie his mother sent him shovelling cucumber sandwiches into her mouth with a tired expression from just one hour ago, and calms. Newt’s accent twists around the name the same way that Thomas’ father’s does, like it’s orbiting the word like a comet that’s just slingshot back to where it came from. Sonya’s voice clips around the word, too, despite having lost virtually 90% of the accent that her parents and her brother determinedly hold on to with an iron grip. 

His dad slips every now and then, and it’s almost funny to watch how angry he gets when he catches the smallest hint of a Callisto dialect on his tongue. 

It is for this reason Thomas finds himself asking, “Do you miss Ganymede?”

Newt looks shocked at the question in the way that he, himself, hadn’t thought about whether or not he missed the great silver moon. He pauses to think for a moment, and then says, “Not really. I mean sometimes, I guess, sort of.”

“What was it like?”

Newt turns his face toward the sky and closes his eyes as he answers, “Big. Much bigger than here. And wider, too, but it was also lonelier. You walk through the streets here and there might be no one around, but you _ feel _ it – the buzz of the sector, always alive. There, you walk around suburbia and it’s like you’re the only person left alive.” 

Thomas sees goosebumps raise on the spot just below Newt’s elbow despite the heat, and remarks, “Mom says everything’s grey.” 

Newt points upward. “That too.” 

Thomas’ father used to put him to bed as a child with stories of the silver moon, but they were never filled with the dull disinterest that fills Newt’s and his mother’s stories. There was a certain nursery rhyme that he had been particularly fond of when he was small, and made his dad sing it to him almost every night. 

It went: _ The boy from Ganymede/ flew up to the stars and saw/ the sun, the moon, the bead/ the galaxy galore/ one day he swam and danced/ along the boundless mass/ until he yawned and fell/ back to Ganymede once more. _

(Thomas had asked once_ , Did the boy ever get lost up in the stars? _ And his dad kissed his forehead and said _ , Never, love, he always finds his way back home.) _

The heavy hiss of tires against hard sand draws their attention toward the two cars reaching the finish line. Unlike before, it is not hard to tell who won, as Rachel crosses a whole two car lengths before Ben. They high five after exiting the cars, less shaky on their feet as Minho and Gally, who are still off recovering, had been. When the two are done being looked over by Harriet they run along to collect their money from Jorge, and Newt claps Thomas on the shoulder and says, “Looks like we’re up.” 

Thomas might possibly throw up. Or pass out. Whichever gets him out of this the fastest. 

As he is weighing up his options Newt digs a hand into his pocket and pulls out an amber sphere, and Thomas regards it with surprise, having forgotten that Newt had picked up his own that night at the clearing. 

He frowns and pulls a face when he notices Thomas staring. “What?” Newt says, silvery-blue rivets intermixing with the cool amber, “Like you don’t carry yours around with you as well. I’ve seen it, Tommy.”

Dumbfounded, Thomas reaches into his own pocket on auto pilot and pulls out the small sphere, now glowing a vibrant indigo-lavender combination. 

Newt grins, smug, and clinks his ice sphere against Thomas’ before slipping it safely back into his pocket, and proceeds to pull Thomas toward the line up by his wrist. 

“You know the rules,” Harriet tells him before pushing him toward the silver Nissan. Thomas tries not to stumble. Sonya is whispering something in her brother’s ear, and Thomas sees him roll his eyes and shove her away with a grimace on his face. She laughs all the way back to Harriet. 

“Okay!” Brenda shouts from the starting line, scarf above her hand as it had been before, when Newt and Thomas are appropriately strapped into their test cars and Harriet is happy, “Get ready, boys! On your marks –!” 

The crowd cheers. Thomas grips the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. 

“Get set!” 

Newt calls his name and Thomas turns to find him watching him from his car. Smiling warmly he gives Thomas a big thumbs up, his eyes dispelling invisible words of comfort. 

Thomas grips the steering wheel less, and breathes a bit easier. 

Brenda lowers the scarf in a flurry of movement and yells, “_ Go! _” 

Thomas slams his foot on the acceleration a little too hard as if his shoe is suddenly full of lead and propels the car forward. He sees Newt in the side view mirror, a ribbon length behind him, speeding off in a cloud of sand and dust. Their speed is so far matching Minho and Gally’s and Thomas scrambles, back vertical against the seat, to stabilise himself, but for the most part the car does as it pleases, swearing along the sand track as if Thomas is merely a passenger in its joy ride. 

“Whoa whoa whoa!” he shouts, gripping the steering wheel in a steel tight grip once more. Gritting his teeth, Thomas leans forward and eases off the pedal as best as he can, jumping between the brake and accelerator, rapid and clumsy like he is learning to drive all over again. Finally, the car begins to slow and level out, and Thomas breathes easier as he takes back control, rolling his shoulders into a more relaxed position and focusing on the fast-approaching turn. 

A flash to his right catches his attention and Thomas turns his gaze away from the course for one moment to see the nose of Newt’s car come up beside him in perfect parallel. Newt looks the middle ground between exhilaration and terror, eyeing the turn as Thomas is. He looks at him, also, and grins, his lips moving. 

“What?” Thomas shouts, eyes shifting back and forth from the road ahead to Newt. 

Newt shouts, louder, “I said: _ don’t drift! _These things are insanely intuitive, Jorge is a mad genius! The car will know what to do!”

“_ What? _” Thomas yells again not because he didn’t hear Newt, but because he isn’t sure if his ears are working correctly. 

Newt winks and rolls up his window, then slams the pedal and speeds off in front of Thomas. 

“Shit,” Thomas hisses and follows. 

There are people standing by the curve because they evidently have a death wish, Thomas thinks, gritting his teeth and stamping the break as it approaches. He drifts despite being told not to and watches with mild sadism as the crowd disappears in a cloud of sand. 

“Shit _ shit! _ ” he cries when the car swerves not in the direction he wants, zig-zagging across the track rapidly as he struggles to take back control. Up ahead Newt’s car turns carelessly around the curve, and Thomas thinks back on his earlier words: _ The car will know what to do _. 

_ Alright _, Thomas thinks, time to really test out this comet powered engine. 

Taking a deep breath, he removes his hands off the wheel and takes his foot off the brake. Thomas’ heart lurches into his throat for a moment when the car continues to swerve until, after one more sharp turn, the car flips him back in the right direction, and takes off down the track. 

Thomas shouts at the unexpected speed and scrambles for the wheel once again. A laugh builds up in his throat when his car comes nose to tail with Newt’s, and then at the look of absolute confusion on his friend’s face when he passes him. Thomas flips a two-fingered peace sign via the rearview mirror and crosses the finish line. 

Thomas slams the brake and the car skids to a stop a foot away from Jorge, who leaps out of the away but doesn’t seem too upset about having to. 

He’s attacked by Brenda the second he steps out of the car, weak-kneed and gripping the door frame for dear life. She laughs in his ear, arms thrown around his shoulders and squeezing tight as Thomas works on catching his breath, gripping her waist with his other hand to stop them both from toppling over. 

“That was amazing!” Brenda cries, stepping back and holding Thomas at arm’s length, somehow supporting his entire weight as if he weighs nothing. 

“Incredible!” Jorge agrees, stumbling in and clapping Thomas hard on the back, almost dislodging him. Newt climbs out of his car, posture perfect as if the whole ordeal was nothing but his hair a mess atop his head, brushed to the side, and his eyes are wild and as he stares at Thomas, and stares and stares. 

Thomas feels pinned under his gaze, locked in place and unable to move or look away from the intensity and heat. The sun beats down on their heads but Thomas feels sweat bead on his top lip for an entirely different reason. 

A rush of movement flashes in the corner of his eye before Newt’s face is obscured by a wave of blonde as his sister leaps on him similarly to how Brenda had done with Thomas. Their friends rush to them in one big mass of excitement and Thomas shakes himself, a breathless laugh escaping from his lips. 

“See?” he grins, “Told you I was a good driver.”

“Oh,” Teresa says, frowning after she releases him from her hug, “No, honey, that was the some of the worst driving I’ve seen, and I don’t think I’ll be getting in another car with you for a very long time. But it was very impressive.” 

“It was great,” Newt says, sliding in next to him after everyone has let to give them space. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are shining, and Thomas forgets to breathe for a moment. “Told you these cars were intuitive.”

“How did you …?”

“Liz,” Newt says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder toward his sister. 

Brenda gives Thomas and Newt coupons for discounted milkshakes at the hard rock diner that Thomas works at because, technically, they were never meant to be a part of the race and therefore weren’t owed any money, and these milkshakes are “just a courtesy”. Thomas tucks it into his shirt picket and Newt slips his between his teeth. Minho is conspicuously leaning against his car and texting when the two march back up the hill. 

Minho looks up at their approach and grins. “Hey, happy wheels, I saw you zig-zagging along the beach down there. Good race.”

Newt raises an eyebrow, “Where have _ you _ been?” 

“R-and-r,” Minho says, putting his phone away and opening the driver side door. “Get in. It’s as hot as Jupiter’s asshole out here.”

“Well,” Thomas begins when he falls into the back seat, “I say we go get some milkshakes. Me and Newt’s treat.”

Newt grins at Thomas from the passenger’s seat and reaches his fist back, milkshake coupon sandwiched between his middle and ring fingers and waits for Thomas to meet him – which he does, without haste, his own coupon between his fingers, also. 

Minho sighs deeply. 

“You two are fuckin’ unbelievable,” he mumbles, shaking his head as he pulls out on to the road to take them home. The sun glistens off the ocean water when Thomas looks back, iridescent and near blinding. A million crystals.


	2. The Boy From Ganymede

clone

/kləʊn/

_ verb _

gerund or present participle: ** _cloning_ **

  * replicate (a fragment of DNA placed in an organism) so that there is sufficient to analyse or use in protein production.

_ "we have cloned DNA sequences added to the ends of the linear plasmid" _

\- 

Many years ago, the Great Planet acted as a protector of sorts for the Old Planet. 

Its magnificent gravitational pull shielded it from meteors and space debris that wished to crash into the surface and abolish all life. For centuries, it protected Earth from destruction ranging from minor to major to absolute, flinging the giant, cosmic rocks away like a slingshot, but it, unfortunately, could not protect the planet from its inevitable, ultimate destruction: famine, pollution, war, and finally death. 

Like the four horsemen that the original humans used to believe in – four horsemen for four moons. When the Old Planet cannot be shielded any longer, Jupiter still carries on its duty as the protector of humankind, now until forever. 

Thomas first heard the story in his fifth-grade history class and, now, he reads it again on a plaque in the museum before a painting which takes up most of the wall. It is printed to mimic the old technique of oil paints and depicts Earth as it would have once looked; blue and green and magnificent, it’s one singular moon hovering loyally in the top right-hand corner. He hears the story again now from the mouth of the museum tour guide as she stops just beside the painting to educate the group of locals and tourist alike. 

Thomas had gone on one of these tours with the school when he was eight, ended up getting distracted by a nuclear warhead and separated from the group. He’d sat in a corner, lost and scared, crying into his knees until Newt, Teresa, and Minho came and found him. It was just to his left, by the big circular window. Thomas smiles at it, now. 

“Amazing, isn’t it,” a voice says, and with a start Thomas turns to find Lawrence sitting beside him. He lounges back on the bench, legs splayed out comfortably as if he has been there for a while and Thomas blinks, wondering when the man turned up and how he hadn’t noticed. 

“Uh.” Thomas clears his throat. “What is?”

Lawrence gestures to the large oil painting. The sunlight catches the vine tattoos on his face and makes them glisten. A single rose blooms behind his ear. 

“That,” he says, “The mother world. Didn’t look like that in the end, you know, but … once. We see it films and pictures and art just like this, but what I wouldn’t give to see an ocean. A real-life ocean.”

“There’s one on Europa,” Thomas says, “You could go there.”

“Me?” Lawrence barks a loud laugh which turns the heads of a group admiring a sculpture of ancient pyramids. “No, nah, I couldn’t go there.”

“Why?”

Lawrence raises his eyebrows at Thomas. A vine disappears in the process. “_ Why? _ Have you seen me? They’d never let me pass the gates. Nah,” he says again, shaking his head, “I like it here too much. Those other sectors, they’re –” He waves a hand. “There’s something magical about this very moon.” 

“It was the first,” Thomas murmurs. 

Lawrence nods. “It was the first. You know what they called this back on Earth?” he asks, to which Thomas shakes his head. “The dead moon. This, what we’re standing on now, has been pelted with meteors and space junk more than any other rock floating around in this galaxy – not to mention the oldest. Below us –” Lawrence stamps his feet on the floor, hard enough that it echoes, “there’s ice. And below that ice is water. And not just any water, no, man, _ molten hot water _. Like a pot over the stove. That’s what makes it glow. 

“Us being here right now? That’s something that wasn’t even _ fathomed _ once upon a time.” Lawrence pauses and stares to the right at a row of paintings; the four moons in a line, ranging from biggest to smallest. Callisto shines the brightest among them, a million lights below the hard, rocky surface. It makes it look like glass. “The dead moon,” he murmurs, “Well. Look at it now. Look at them all now.” 

“Lawrence,” Thomas begins, “Why do you live on the streets? No one else does and you obviously know a lot about all this stuff, you could be hall somewhere, teaching.”

Lawrence waves a hand dismissively. “I tried all that once,” he says, “Wasn’t for me.”

Thomas opens his mouth and shuts it, wanting to say more but biting his tongue. The rules of the sector are simple; do your part and live comfortably. Everyone goes through school and then they work to live in a home that is warm in the cool season and cool in the hot. Refuse and you are not given that luxury. The fact that Lawrence says he had it once and intentionally gave it up is baffling to Thomas, but.

He knows the rumours about Lawrence. Everyone has their stories about the man who lives at the mall and collects roses, the tales varying from outrageous and tragic to simple and sad. The most popular theory about him is that he’d lost the love of his life and has not been able to move on, collecting roses because they were her favourite flower. Or perhaps it was her name. 

A loud crash makes Thomas jump. Off to the side a child cries on the ground, wailing as she clutches her small knee, her father attempting to quieten her down. Thomas breathes deep and relaxes, and when he turns back Lawrence is gone, the seat beside him empty as if he’d never been there in the first place. 

–

Smoke curls in the air like a river of silver thread, hair fine and ghostly. Thomas watches it dance through bleary, lidded eyes that fall shut and flutter open gently as Newt, lying quietly beside him, blows another puff to the ceiling. 

He can feel the brush of his skin every time he moves; adjusting the way he lies on the carpet, rolling over or shifting both closer and further away from Thomas, and Thomas, skin fever sensitive and nerve endings heightened by the smoke floating around like summer fog in his brain, feels all of it like tiny lightning bolts of electricity under his skin.

Thomas, when he is high, is not dissimilar to Thomas regularly beside the fact that he tends to _ feel _ a lot more than regular Thomas does. The press of Newt’s skin against him being fact one. Fact two attributes to the way his chest seems to seize up sporadically whenever his eyes focus on the dozens of posters that cover every inch of Newt’s bedroom ceiling and he remembers, of yes, this is Newt, his best friend who looks golden in the sunlight and who’s touch sends him into meltdown and who will not be with him at school next year. Who he will have to watch graduate next month, who will walk up onto the stage dressed in dark blue with his hair peeking unrestrained under his cap like always. Who will shake hands with their principle and then smile golden yet again at the crowd, and a little something in Thomas might die.

High Thomas, not dissimilar to regular Thomas, again, tends to lean into dramatics.

Newt’s shoulder rests an inch away from Thomas’ yet he can feel the warmth of him beneath his clothes. They are lying opposite, Newt’s feet pointing above Thomas’ head and Thomas’ above Newt’s, smoking on Newt’s faux bear skin rug. On the floor – never on the bed. Thomas is too scared for them to ever smoke on either of their beds, where it would be too easy to simply roll over, and –

“Do you think they knew each other?” Newt’s voice asks, cutting through the dangerous fog.

Thomas turns his head to look at Newt. His nose brushes a curl, and it smells like weed and coconut. “Do I think who knew each other?” he asks, words slipping and sliding into each other somewhat.

Newt waves a hand lazily before allowing it to flop back onto the floor with a _ thump _. “Our donors,” Newt says, “Whoever they were. Do you think they could have known each other?”

The question gives him pause for a strange reason he can’t quite name, and Thomas has to collect himself for a minute before answering. “I don’t know. It’s … unlikely but not. Not completely unlikely, I guess. Earth was a large planet,” Thomas says. “Why?”

Newt shrugs. Thomas feels it. He takes one more drag of the joint before passing it to Thomas.

“I’ve just been thinking, lately,” Newt says, “About how amazing it would be if we knew each other back then.”

Thomas stares at the ceiling. He blows out more smoke and says, “It would be pretty awesome.”

“We have …” Newt shifts again, and says, “We have always just … connected.”

Thomas continues to stare at the ceiling, except now a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispers hopefully, _ He feels it, too. _

“Yeah,” Thomas breathes, then clears his throat, giving the blunt back to Newt. “I mean maybe. Or maybe not.”

Newt hums, slowly, after a second. “Sure. We might have been fifty years apart. You’d be old and wrinkly,” he says.

Thomas laughs, shocked. It floats in the air like bubbles. “Me? I’d still look great at sixty, thank you very much. Your pasty ass on the other hand …” 

Newt laughs also, and his bubbles join Thomas’. “Yeah,” he says, “You would.”

Thomas rolls on his side, meaning to go left but turning right. He spends a good five minutes counting the summer freckles on Newt’s cheekbone and imagines flower petals falling down the bridge of his nose. He says, “Sometimes I feel like I knew who he was. The echo it … it sparks, sometimes, and then I feel like I am him, and it – But then it goes away, and I’m just me again.”

Newt’s eyebrows twitch, and he turns his head to look at Thomas. “And what’s wrong with just you?”

Thomas doesn’t quite know what to say to that. 

“Hey,” Newt says, reaching up to lightly tap the top of Thomas’ head with his knuckles. His hand falls there, and for a moment Thomas can feel his fingers curling into his rich brown locks. “I for one think _ just you _ is fantastic.”

The way that they’re lying, the tips of their noses pressing together so soft it nearly tickles – it wouldn’t take much. Not much at all.

Thomas blinks, eyes fluttering, suddenly aware of all the smoke, and his lips drop open. Newt’s eyes dart up to his mouth and linger there long enough for Thomas’ throat to become tight as he forgets to breathe. Newt looks like he wants to say something, or he is waiting for Thomas to say something, but then a bird flies by the widow outside, tweeting loudly, and Newt looks away.

He takes another drag, deep, and blows it to the ceiling, and just like that the moment is gone.

Thomas rolls on to his back and presses a hand to the middle of his chest, and breathes. He thinks he is being quiet until Newt asks him, “Why do you do that?”

“Hm?” Thomas stops.

Newt rolls over and pokes him one in the rib, not hard enough to hurt. “That,” he says, “hold your chest and breathe like you’re not sure how to.”

Thomas’ mouth drops open and a sound comes out that doesn’t quite sound like anything. Newt pokes him again, and he takes a shaky breath and admits, “Sometimes it feels like my lungs aren’t working like they should be.”

Newt takes a moment to process this, just like Mary had but with less professional curiosity and more of that of the drug-addled mind, before he hums thoughtfully and lifts up to place his ear to the middle of Thomas’ chest. Thomas stops.

“Breathe in,” Newt says, and Thomas does nothing of the sort. “Tommy. Breathe in for me, please?”

Thomas breathes. Newt hums again after a second and moves his head to the other side of Thomas’ chest and repeats the command. Thomas takes another deep breath, closing his eyes on the exhale. He takes three more deep breaths before he feels Newt shift on his chest. and for a moment it feels as if he is nuzzling.

Newt says, “Your heart’s beating fast,” his cheek pressing firmly into the dip between his rib cage.

Thomas laughs and nudges him away. “Yeah, it’s because you’re crushing me.”

Newt laughs also, soft and airy, and lifts up on his elbows. He rolls his eyes and says, “Everything sounds fine to me.”

Thomas rolls his eyes back. “You’re a doctor now, are you?”

Newt taps the shell of his left ear and grins. “Super-sonic hearing.”

“Oh,” Thomas says, as Newt snatches the joint out from between his fingers and flops back down on his back, “Not a doctor, then. A superhero.”

Newt winks and blows out a puff of smoke.

Thomas sits and watches him for a moment. There is a strand of hair lying strangely across Newt’s forehead and Thomas’s fingers itch to reach out and brush it to the side.

He does, and later he will blame it on the smoke.

When his turn comes around again, Thomas holds his hand out expectantly for Newt to slip it between his pinched fingers. He does not, and when Thomas looks up again he finds Newt starting back at him with a look of steady contemplation on his smooth, relaxed face, and a decision swimming in his glistening eyes. When Newt is high his eyes water, bringing out the colour of his irises and making them glimmer like diamonds.

Now they shine at Thomas as he says, “Come over here.”

Thomas frowns. “What?”

Newt brings the bud to his lips and repeats, “Come _ here _,” and now his intentions are clear. 

Thomas drops down to his elbows so that they are lying as they had been before. This time, Thomas is facing down toward Newt while Newt gazes up at him, the bud of the joint skirting the edge of his lips tauntingly. Thomas watches as they wrap around the end, cheeks hollowing, his gaze never once shifting from Thomas, not even when he pulls the bud away and does not breathe out as Thomas shifts over him a good distance above, elbows shaking with effort.

They’ve never done this before; not once during the nights they have been so out of it they could barely speak. So Thomas is cautious, heart hammering with nervous energy, and he either takes too long or he is too far away as Newt reaches up, gripping the back of Thomas’ neck, and pulls him down to his mouth.

Thomas’ nose brushes Newt’s chin as Newt breathes smoke up into Thomas’ mouth. His jaw falls open as the smoke swirls in the air around them in a cloud of silver, curling up around Thomas’ ears and nose. Newt’s grip on the back of his neck tightens and Thomas feels himself being pulled in closer until their lips brush, feather-light. It is an accident of circumstance, an act of gravity, of course, but Thomas’ heart still leaps and his fists curl into balls against the hardwood floor.

Newt’s nose brushes the underside of his jaw, and he feels his eyelashes tickle his skin. Thomas opens his eyes.

The smoke immediately clouds his vision and burns. In the brief moment of shock and panic Thomas breathes in and the smoke enters his lungs and, like a boy taking his first drag of a cigarette, rears back and launches into a coughing fit, eyes watering and face red. 

Newt is laughing at him, wiping at his own eyes a little, as Thomas tries not to die on his bedroom floor. Eventually he gets up to pat him on the back, and Thomas calms down enough after a solid five minutes of thinking his life has come to an end to breathe semi-evenly once again.

He feels the phantom touch of Newt’s lips against his own for the remainder of the afternoon; when they’re in the kitchen making lunch, when they are in Newt’s living room playing a video game, and at sundown when they are in Newt’s swimming pool, stripped down to their underwear and splashing each other with water. He feels it when Newt wades closer to him enough for their ankles to touch and Thomas to feel Newt’s breath on his jaw, and for a moment Thomas’ heart leaps into his throat when Newt’s eyes flutter down to Thomas’ mouth, and he wades closer.

The sky turns magenta, amethyst and blue and Newt’s eyes shine like raw crystals when he pulls away, splashes Thomas once more, and laughs softly. 

Nothing happens. 

–

Thomas walks Calypso early the next morning because, upon walking downstairs in the usual slump toward the kitchen, the large cat had been waiting for him on the island counter, bent forward in a prowl and glaring with her teeth bared as if she might eat him. Thomas sighed and made her wait while he ate his cereal and drank his coffee with her growing two inches from his face the whole time – which, honestly, would have been more threatening if her whiskers hadn’t been tickling his cheeks and making him itch – before grabbing her gold studded collar and matching chain and getting her set up. She seems happier already just to be in the collar, and Thomas deduces she might be missing his mother more than she misses the walks themselves. 

Barnacle mewls at him to come, too, but Barnacle tends to forget how she makes it as far as the next block before she becomes tired and whines for a minute, and Thomas has to take her home. 

“Maybe next time,” he says, bending down to scratch behind her small ears, and leaves her an extra treat to compensate. 

Calypso is happy to walk all the way to the shopping mall. Her favourite route is by the park so that she can watch the pigeons and even try and catch one or two before Thomas plants his feet and tugs at her chain with both hands to hold her back. A little girl watches him struggling with her and jumps up and down, pointing and squealing to her mom that she wants to “pat the big kitty”. Thomas restrains the cat, wipes sweat off his forehead and awkwardly smiles and waves at the mother and daughter as the mother averts her eyes and pulls her child away as fast as possible. 

“Come on,” he grunts to a now very smug wildcat. 

The scenic strip is also where everyone else walks their animals in the morning, and Thomas is stopped by two or three people who know his parents. First is a woman named Lily who works with Thomas’ dad, and her pet deer named Maple who stares at Calypso the entire time in frozen terror. Then there is Mr. George (Thomas does not know his last name, and doesn’t think anyone else does either) with his anteater Sapphire who licks her lips at Calypso the entire time and then, caught with his eyes downcast and walking very fast, Thomas is called out to my the old woman who lived across from him as a child, who still keeps in contact with his mother.

Nel, also known as Nosey Nel by everyone in the neighbourhood, has made a name for herself as the gossip of the neighbourhood. A few years back she’s gone ahead and spread a rumour that his mom had been undergoing several rewinding sessions to stay looking young and beautiful. Since then she’s made it on both his mother’s and Thomas himself’s metaphorical hit list.

Now, Thomas grimaces as he turns back to see Nel crossing the road to meet him, her little dog running to keep up. 

“Thomas!” she pants. 

“Hi, Nel, how are you?” Thomas says, robotically. 

She reaches him and they launch into the whole _ I’m doing well, yes, and you? Yeah, can’t complain. _ Calypso sits at his feet, straight-backed and tail up, staring forward with narrowed eyes, most probably thinking, _ Ah yes, this one. We don’t like her and the rat. _

Well, actually, the dog’s cute. Pearl, a small little Maltese yappy thing not much bigger than Barnacle. Thomas can’t really fault her for her owner. 

Nel pushes her large, pin curled hair to the side and fans herself against the heat, and Thomas submits himself to standing on the busy shop corner for five minutes to answer Nel’s 20 questions of, _ How is school? This is your last year, correct? Oh, excellent! And do you know what you want to do after? Oh, well there’s still time. How are your parents doing? I hear they’re in Sector G right now. Are you still dating that beautiful brunette? No! Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll win her back! _ and so on until he feels his brain melting. 

He gives nondescript vague answers until Nel goes and says, “It’s a shame your parents couldn’t be here for the Gala this year, they always have so much fun. You’re coming, of course?”

Thomas inwardly curses. 

The annual Sector C Gala; he’d forgotten all about it. There is a suit somewhere in the back of his closet, ready for the event, that is probably now sitting in a crumpled ball on the floor being eaten by dust mites and other amoebas. 

Number 12 on the list: _ Don’t forget the Gala! _

Thomas tries to keep the groan out of his voice when he says, “Of course I’m coming. Can’t miss it.”

He is representing his family. There are no ifs or buts about it. 

It is the only event his parents gave him full permission to attend while grounded for the sole reason of showing up, smiling, and pretending that he cares about whatever rich, wine flushed business person he talks to has to say. _ Grounded _ , Thomas thinks, looking back on everything he’s done in the past week that definitely breaks the parameters of what is allowed while one is grounded, and sends a silent _ sorry _ to his parents. 

“You’ll be working with these people one day, Thomas,” his dad told him the night they left for the shuttle, as his mom hung the suit up on his closet door. He leaned down to Thomas’ level where he sat on his bed and sulked, grey eyes a mirror of his own but while his father’s have always managed to look like electric storm clouds, Thomas’ were dull and bland like an overcast morning. It was one of the only things Thomas envied him about. “You have to make a good impression.”

So, Thomas agreed to go to the Gala and to behave for the three weeks that they are gone, and so far it’s going _ swimmingly _. 

At least he’ll be able to uphold the Gala promise. 

A man sitting at the bus stop is eyeing Calypso over his newspaper as is Pearl, weary and fearful and beginning to tremble on her skinny legs, and Thomas realises they are blocking the street. He tells Nel the cat’s getting tired, and eventually after another long couple minutes of Nel berating him with last minutes questions he is granted freedom and they go their separate ways. Thomas breathes deep and rubs his temple with his free hand. 

Calypso growls under her breath and Thomas sighs. “Yeah, I know, girl.” 

In the square outside the mall, Lawrence has apparently graciously given his alcove to Nina to erect her lemonade stand. The bucket of roses sits companionably by her side, and she appears to be asking customers for them with every purchase of sugary beverage. 

Minho and Gally are standing at the counter, and Thomas hears, “Who just carries around a rose?”

Nina stares up at them with her usual blank expression, cheeks rosy pink and curly blonde hair tied up with a big bow that she tightens irately as she tells Gally, “You can just say you don’t have one.”

Minho rubs the back of his neck, and from the set of his shoulders Thomas can tell his expression is sheepish. “We’ll take two.” 

Thomas strolls up with Calypso in tow, and says, “Hey guys.”

Gally turns to acknowledge his presence and gives a two-fingered wave, handing over two five-dollar bills. Minho looks a little more taken aback by Thomas’ sudden appearance – even more so when he sees the cat strutting up beside him, and reflexively jerks back. The table wobbles and Gally snorts. Nina is unimpressed. 

“Morning, Min,” Thomas says, grinning. 

“Yeah. Good morning,” his friend replies, staring at the cat. Calypso bares her teeth sadistically. 

“It’s just a big fuckin’ cat,” Gally says. Then, to Nina, as she is handing him to two cups of lemonade, “Sorry. _ Freakin’ _ cat.” 

Nina’s eyes narrow, and she says, “I’m only three months younger than you, Galileo.”

The three of them wince, Gally more so over the use of the name than anything. 

(It was fashionable, during the years where Gen 2ers were old enough to have kids, to name them after various astronomical or scientific features. Thomas goes to school with five Orions and three Venus’.) 

It’s a usual reaction to be awkward around Nina, especially when one is reminded of the girl’s various rewindings. It’s hard to forget she isn’t really eleven years old and instead should have been graduating high school with Newt and Gally later this year. 

They were all at her ninth birthday party. Thomas remembers jumping with her in a jumping castle and sleeping over at her house. 

Gally clears his throat and drinks his lemonade, and hands Minho his. 

“Hey, Thomas,” Nina greets, flicking a curl that keeps escaping from behind her ear, “Want some lemonade?”

“Sure,” Thomas says, and walks closer. Minho remains very still as Calypso joins him. Gally is coughing. “What’s the cause?”

“Me,” Nina says, utterly unbashful, and pours Thomas a cup. Thomas takes it, thankfully, and hands her $5. 

When her back is turned Gally clamps a hand on his shoulder and, with a strained voice, says, “Drink _ slowly _.”

Nina shoos them off on account of them blocking the stand and, when the three-plus the cat move to the small park with a brightly coloured jungle-jim across the road, Thomas asks, “So, what are you guys doing out?”

Minho answers, “Going for a walk,” at the same time Gally says, “Getting lemonade.” 

Silence falls. A child laughs with delight behind them as it hangs off the monkey bars. 

“Cool,” Thomas says, “Well, I’ll leave you to it then. See you later tonight.” 

Gally gives the two-fingered wave again and, when Thomas turns to leave, Minho calls out his name and follows. 

“Wait, Thomas,” he says, “Can we, uh. Talk for a second?”

Thomas stops walking and Calypso tugs on the lead, irritably. Thomas winds it around his wrist. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?” 

Minho bites the corner of his lip and hesitates, his eyes far away. Thomas recognises the guarded, cloudy look in his eyes from that of which he sees in his bathroom mirror every now and then. It’s usually when the echo is the worst, when Thomas is lying in bed in the far-too-early hours of the morning and angsting over feelings that aren’t his own, and are his own, and eventually _ become _ his own. 

It’s exhausting. 

Eventually, Minho takes a deep breath and says, “You know that position at the Artemis base I applied for?”

Thomas thinks for a moment. He remembers back a couple months ago; Minho sending in an essay to WCKD2 for an application to work at the Artemis base when school ended next year. 

“The mechanic one?” Minho nods. “What about it?”

“I, um.” Minho’s eyes flutter shut a moment, and when he opens them, he is frowning. “I got an email saying that they’re considering me. My application. But –” he cuts in, before the smile on Thomas’ face can broaden, “But.” 

“What?” Thomas asks, growing concerned, “It’s here, right? They’re not, like, sending you to Europa or anything? Are.” Thomas pauses. “Are they?”

“No, no! No, they aren’t sending me anywhere. They offered, when the time comes to, uh. If I wanted to see it.” 

“See ...?”

“See _ it _, Thomas.” 

Oh.

The tape. The centuries-year-old recording of their donors. 

Everyone has one, tucked away in a big room at WCKD2 headquarters, in the donor centre. Not everyone gets to just _ see it _ – it is offered only a hand-picked few. Minho must have done something right to be offered this. 

Not everyone wants to see it, either, but most are curious. It’s hard not to be at the concept of sitting in a room and watching a recording of someone who looks exactly like you, sounds exactly like you and moves exactly like you, answering interview questions. Some who have seen it say that it is like the video was made when you were blackout drunk, and can’t remember ever saying the things you did. Because on all accounts that is you in the video, just a little different. 

Others have described the experience as unnerving and unnatural like you’re watching a video of yourself from a parallel universe, or a doubleganger. 

Thomas has ever only known one person who had been given the chance to watch their tape, and went through with it; a guy named Fry who was a couple of years ahead of them in school, and Newt’s next-door neighbour. Thomas had never gotten the chance to ask him what it was like, and neither did anyone else as he did not speak to anyone for a week afterward, and transferred to Europa to work on the lava rig the next month. No one’s seen him since. 

It’s theoretically meant to help with the echo or make it much worse. 

The fact that they are giving Minho this opportunity to do so must mean that they are considering his application _ highly _.

“Wow,” Thomas says, a little breathless. “Wow, that’s. Are you going to do it?” 

Minho licks his lips. Thomas watches the path of it across his bottom lip before Minho huffs and says, “I don’t know. Would you? Do it?”

Thomas has absolutely no idea how to answer that question which, he realises, must be exactly how Minho is feeling right now. 

Minho has tired eyes, dry skin, and a low impact bruise along his collar bone that is peeking out under his shirt. Thomas looks at him, the boy he sat with in his front yard when his parents were screaming down the house inside, who liked to cuddle Thomas to his chest during sleepovers and thought nothing of it, who now won’t tell him about all the things happening inside his head and who is scared. 

Thomas thinks of Fry, and tells Minho, “I don’t know,” but means to say _ Please don’t _. 

–

He’s in the shower when it happens. 

The place where, usually, teenagers like himself would be imagining a naked body or two nestled in the small, compact space against his own, but tonight Thomas’ mind is preoccupied with shades of pantones for the living room wall, of all things. 

He is mulling over two of them (midnight sonata and tangerine sunset) when his lungs fail, his repertory system curls in on itself like a pill bug, and he stops breathing. Thomas’ eyes widen with panic and he reaches out blindly for the shower rail, groping desperately at the cold tile until he finds it. Fingers claw at his chest and throat and tears well up in Thomas’ eyes, and the noise that comes out of him is an awful, strangled inhuman gasp which echoes around the cavern of the shower stall. His knees buckle and he falls to the cold tiled floor, ears numb to all sound except the ringing in his ears and the sound of his own voice as trying despertaly to breathe. His eyes shut and tears fill. 

Thomas’ body grows weak and he reopens his eyes a moment later he finds his vision spotty, blurring at the corners and, hysterically the following thoughts cross his mind: 

  1. If he dies now he would have no choice but to die again of embarrassment in the afterlife when his parents eventually return to find his blue, naked corpse on the floor, and; 
  2. Who’s going to feed the cats? 
  3. His parents will have to go through the horrific turmoil of burying their only child, and; 
  4. is the regret that he will never get to see eighteen so close to it. 

Finally, 5. Newt will never know how Thomas really feels about him. 

Something pops at that final thought, like that was the one to pull him back from the edge, and all at once Thomas’ ears unplug and his vision stills and his heart begins to beat as normal. His lungs reinflate themselves from their shrivelled balloon state and Thomas gasps, loudly, the sound of it filling the room until there is no other sound before too much sound; the shower, his coughing, heart beating and the blood pumping in his chest, Barnacle scratching at the door and mewling in distress. 

Thomas gasps big lungfuls of air and collapses against the tile, calming on his fever hot skin, sagging. He remains in that exact position for a while, the running water beating down on him in hot rivets. He watches the soap that lingered in his hair drip down his arm and into the drain in a swirl of white, blankly. His calves are cramping but Thomas makes no effort to change his position or even stand, worried his knees will buckle once more and send him right back down to where he is now. Or worse – that it will happen again. 

Thomas presses his forehead against the pale blue tile until it hurts, and whispers, “_ Fuck _.”

He rushes to Mary – that is, jabbing the screwdriver yet again into the ignition and leaves the cats number one and two in the house (One scratching at the glass frantically in distress and Two blinking calmly yet confused at Thomas as he backs out of the driveway, still sleepy from her midday nap). 

Despite the panic and overshadowing fear that it will happen again at any time, Thomas drives slow and careful all the way to the mall. Mary’s medical centre sits nestled in between a café and a home spot store. The barista, a girl he knows, spots him and waves from the coffee maker and Thomas, startlingly, forgets that his glasses and slippers combination usually worn inside the house has never seen the outside world. He fidgets with the glasses consciously and rushes inside the centre without any more hesitation.

Mary is working today but she has a line of patients before Thomas, so he resigns himself to slumping in the uncomfortable plastic chairs with curves so dramatic it couldn’t possibly be ergonomic, and waits. He ignores the texts on his phone and scrolls through the news, numbly (Monica and James Kelly are happy to announce yet another week of healthy pregnancy, Ms. Paige is meeting with a delegate from Io this afternoon to discuss future infostructure and expansion, and _ What Scientists Discovered At The Mining Base on Europa May Shock You! _). When that gets too boring, he participates in staring blankly at the sleek white wall until the corners of his vision darken and blur, and the next thing he knows he is being shaken awake by the nurse, informing him that the doctor is ready to see him. 

Mary is not halfway done with asking Thomas how he is when he blurts out everything that happened to him in the shower two hours ago, and Thomas is not halfway done with the story before his limbs grow week and he begins to sway, reaching out to steady himself against the office gurney. The horrified expression does not have time to fully form on Mary’s face before Doctor Mode kicks in and she is turning to call a nurse into the office to prep the scanner, shoving a hospital gown into Thomas’ arms a moment later.

The rush falls flat, quick and hard, and Thomas is left in a cold, wide room in a thin hospital robe, sitting on top of the smooth rubber surface of the scanning machine while Mary and some nurses prep everything from behind the glass. He blinks over to where his glasses sit on a small table out of the way, along with his slippers. The rest of his clothes are in the next room with the doctors, along with his wallet and phone, and crystal. 

Thomas is surprised to find that it is not his phone he wishes for as a comfort item but the ice crystal – the phantom weight of it is heavy in his empty hands, and he longs to hold it to his chest, and press it to his mouth as he sometimes does, and watch the colours react to the warmth of his skin. 

Thomas balls his hands into fists and continues to wait. After five minutes of amusing himself with counting the number of tiles on the floor (2,052) before moving on to the hairline cracks in the walls (5) the door at the far end opens and Mary enters the room. All stress and seriousness have been wiped clean from her expression and what remains is kind and cheerful, and designed specifically to put Thomas at ease. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s only making everything worse. 

“Okay, Thomas,” Mary begins, her soothing, raspy voice filling the quiet room. She moves over to a small machine on Thomas’ right and pushes a button. It whirrs to life with a high _ beep _. “We’ll get started now.”

“How long is this going to be?” Thomas asks, trying not to sound impatient. It works to some degree, as the anxiety creeps into his voice at the last moment and drowns everything else. 

Mary’s eyes are warm and comforting. She places a hand on his shoulder and says, “Not too long, I promise. Ten minutes, tops.”

Thomas doesn’t say that that sounds like too long to him – that four minutes is too long – but keeps his lips shut tight and lies back on the bench when Mary tells him to. She pulls a large, donut-shaped object which shines a bright, white light down on him when she switches it on. The lights blink and the device detaches itself from its stand and begins to hover over Thomas’ body, whirring softly. 

“Now, Thomas, I’m going to need you to hold as still as you possible can for the next few minutes. Is that alright?”

Thomas goes to nod or give her a thumbs up, but realises that would be contrary and instead just answers, “Yes,” clipped and tight. 

Mary seems satisfied with that and gets to work. The overall process isn’t terrible, he has to admit. It’s mildly irritating and boring at best, the knowledge that he cannot move brings about multiple itches in his knees and chest, and he becomes hyper aware of his breathing somewhere at the three-minute mark. By six minutes the donut machine settles in a steady hover over the middle of his chest. It spins in a slow circle as the lights blink in rhythmic patterns. Thomas can imagine the images of the inside of his body filling the screen in front of Mary. 

She doesn’t speak a word during the whole ten minutes, and Thomas isn’t sure if that is good or bad. 

Eventually, the machine powers off and floats back on to its stand, and Mary tells him to sit up. He does so slowly, cracking the joints in his shoulders, and sits cross-legged on the bench as she pieces together whatever information she’s found. Another fifteen minutes pass as Mary disappears into the next room yet again to discuss the scans with other doctors and nurses, and Thomas is left alone, again, with his own thoughts. 

He wishes for his phone, this time. 

Five minutes after that is when Mary finally re-enters the room to put him out of his misery. She holds a tablet in his hands, images of Thomas’ X-Rays filling up the screen, and pulls up a stool to sit in front of him. 

Before she can speak, Thomas asks, “Did you find anything?”

Mary nods, slowly, “We did.”

“And?”

Mary sighs, low and deep. She places the tablet in her lap, lacing her fingers on top of it. 

“And it looks like your Donor was one among a long list of Donors who lied about their health during their time at The Program.” 

Thomas’ insides grow cold. “Lied about … about their health? How did he … what. What was it?” He asks, not wanting to say What _ is _ it. 

Mary brushes her hair behind her ear calmly, and says, “It’s an old disease. One that targeted the lungs and other internal organs. The repertory system, mostly. Caused it to shut down.”

Mary pauses when she sees the look on Thomas’ face. She slides forward and grips his hands in hers, and suddenly Thomas feels seven years old again, looking up at Mary as she tucked him into bed on the nights his parents were on work trips on the other moons. 

“Thomas, I’m telling you this because this is your body and you have a right to know what’s happening with it. But also because if we should go any further, if you want to _ know _ more, that is, I want you to know that it is all perfectly treatable.” 

“Now?” Thomas asks.

Mary blinks, “No we don’t have to go into it now, but –”

“No,” Thomas shakes his head, “I mean is it treatable now?”

“Yes.”

“But it wasn’t back when … when _ he _ was alive.”

Mary frowns. “No, unfortunately, it was not. Thomas –”

Thomas slips his hands out from Mary’s and hugs his middle. “I don’t want to know anything else,” he says, looking at the ground. 

It’s a lie, obviously. He feels the gnawing curiosity clawing at the back of his mind like a cat with claws as sharp as razors, but he knows if he was to learn more about this disease his Donor had, the one that is currently living like a dormant volcano inside of him, a disease that he can be cured of with a snap of Mary’s fingers but is one that his Donor lived and suffered with for so long, it would be too much. 

It’s a strange feeling to know that you are living with another person’s body. Thomas tries not to dwell on it too much lest the echo symptoms kick in harder, leaving him in a fetal position on his bedroom floor for days (which has been known to happen – groups and therapy sessions set up in his high school and other medical centres for this exact reason). 

The echo is not kind, not ever, and this is one thing in his life that Thomas refuses to intentionally provoke. 

Mary is looking at him with searching eyes before she settles with his answer and nods. 

They begin with the second half of the testing, which is a question and answer session where Mary asks him if he is getting enough sleep or is eating correctly and, for once, Thomas does not coat the truth in a layer of sugar. 

Mary asks him how much he’s been drinking lately and Thomas answers, “Not much.” Truthfully he has never been the biggest fan of getting drunk as a concept; alcohol itself is fine but inebriation brings on sluggishness and the sensation that the air is too heavy, or moving his limbs is too much of an effort. Excessive amounts of alcohol loosen his senses and fill his head with thoughts he’d rather not entertain. 

Then Mary asks about drugs and Thomas tries not to put forward any other reaction than _ casual _. 

“Not recently,” he says, picking at a thumbnail. 

“Thomas,” Mary says in _ that _ voice, the one she uses when he’s calling his bullshit for what it is, “I need you to be honest or none of this will work.”

“Just,” Thomas sighs, “Just weed, I. Nothing lately. Not in the past three months.” 

Mary believes him, and they finish up the session without argument. At the end she leaves so he can dress and then she proceeds to walk him out of the centre, Thomas apparently being her last patient for the day. They stop at the pharmacy and Thomas waits over to the side as Mary chats with the nurse on the other side of the counter, his hand buried in his pocket and secured around the ice crystal. He still hasn’t pulled it out to see what colour it shines. 

After a minute the nurse hands Mary a box which she thanks him for, before giving it to Thomas. 

“What’s this?” Thomas asks, shaking the box to make whatever is inside it rattle against the cardboard walls. 

“Treatment,” Mary says. “Take three drops of this three times a day, no more and no less until the bottle is empty. And, Thomas, I shouldn’t have to tell you not to mix substances with this. Okay?”

Thomas nods and turns the box around in his hands. The name of the medicine is some long, scientific word he cannot understand nor pronounce. Mary offers to drive him home but Thomas, not wishing to reveal the mode of transport he’d used to arrive at the mall out of fear that she will know he is not supposed to have access to the car, politely declines. He tells her he’d like the fresh air and the walk and Mary, eventually, agrees. 

He waves her goodbye and, not wishing to leave just yet, slumps into a chair at the café and orders a hot chocolate. The crystal is a nervous amber when Thomas finally looks at it. 

Thomas is pulled from his wandering thoughts when Charlotte appears out of thin air and deposits the hot beverage in front of him on the table with fervor, announcing, “Here you go! I put extra marshmallows in it.”

“Oh.” Thomas blinks up at her. “Thanks.”

“No prob.” Charlotte shrugs, then asks, “What’s that?”

Thomas looks back at the box sitting beside him on the table. “I have to drink it or my lungs might stop working.” 

“Boss,” Charlotte says. “I actually meant _ that _, though.” 

She points to the crystal that Thomas is rolling, unconsciously, from palm to palm on the table. It glitters gold and silver and Thomas is so transfixed on it for a moment that he misses when Charlotte whips her apron on the back of the chair opposite Thomas and sits down. “It’s real pretty. What is it?” she asks with that accent related to those who originate from Io, the one that sounds like it’s been dipped in honey and left out in the sun to crystalize. 

“I don’t really know,” Thomas tells her. “Just found it in the woods one day.”

“Huh,” Charlotte hums, watching it glitter on the table. “That’s real cool.” 

Thomas nods and takes a sip of his hot chocolate – too hot, the way this café always makes it. Charlotte must be on her break because she stays in her seat across from Thomas and rattles on about this and that and whatever gossip she’s heard from a friend who heard it from a friend who learned about it from someone’s brother. Thomas _ ah _s and hums automatically, only waking up when she makes a noise at the back of her throat and says, “That does not look comfortable.” 

Thomas turns around to face the television on the wall, where Monica Kelly and her swollen belly are the focal point of the current photoshoot highlights happening on some fashion channel the mall has playing. She looks happy, Thomas thinks, not the fabricated emotions models are usually forced to recreate but _ genuinly _ happy, and very beautiful. 

Thomas shrugs, turning back. “Maybe not,” he says. “Who knows.” 

Charlotte scrunches her nose. “I don’t know, I don’t think I could do that to myself, honestly. I think when it’s time to have a baby I’ll just, like, go to the donation centre and pick one out like everyone else.” 

Thomas hums. “Maybe. It’s a good option to have, though.”

Charlotte snorts. “For you, maybe. Guys don’t have to carry those things around inside of them for eight months.” 

“Nine months,” Thomas says, and Charlotte shrugs, _ Whatever _. “But you’re right, I guess.”

The subject moves on so quickly it gives Thomas whiplash, and he almost swallows his drink wrong when Charlotte leans forward on the table and drops her voice to just above a whisper, and asks, “Hey, Tom, are you seeing anyone a t m?”

She says _ at the moment _like ay-tee-em and for some reason it’s the strangest part of the question.

“Like?”

“Like dating, sleeping with, whatever.” She shrugs. 

Thomas remembers when he and Teresa broke up a couple of years back, some of the girls and guys at school had a poll going of who would be their next romantic pick of the litter. When both of them failed to hook up with anyone in the standard three-week quiet period after a breakup everyone sort of settled on the boring option; that they would get back together. That obviously didn’t happen either, and everyone eventually lost interest and moved on to something more interesting. 

Charlotte had been one of the few options for Thomas’ next girl in the poll, mainly because of her apparent crush on him since she and her brother moved here when they were twelve, and Thomas helped her up in the hallway after some bullies made fun of her accent and pushed her down. 

There had been a lot of girls Thomas fought his hardest to be romantically attracted when the whole Newt Thing began to form, and Charlotte was an easy choice. She’s very pretty, with wide green eyes and sandy hair that falls in thick curls over her shoulders, and freckled cheeks that dimple when she smiles, which is constantly. There was a party in sophomore year, five months after Thomas Noticed Newt – she was wearing a red top that fell open over her shoulders, and her curls were punned up to expose her neck. She giggled, high and melodic in his ear when she pushed Thomas against a statue in a hallway alcove and he kissed her, pulling her hips in close to his. 

Everything was fine for five minutes until the pills he’d taken muddled his brain and made him forget that Charlotte had soft curves and breasts and not a hard chest and strong shoulders and that she was even Charlotte at all. He either heard Newt’s laugh from down the hall or imagined it, but either way, he’d faked an excuse and ran, embarrassed and furious with himself. 

The truth is Thomas has been hung up on his best friend for so long that he’d forgotten dating and sex was even a realistic option, and not some faraway illusion. The worst truth was he doesn’t think it actually _ is _ an option for him, not anymore. At least not right now. Not until he can go one day – one _ hour _ – without thinking about Newt or wondering how he is, or noticing his eyes and his hair colour and his height and his smile in other people and think none of it could ever really be his, at least not when it’s made up into one person. 

“Um,” Thomas croaks out, eventually, and struggles not to turn it into a cough. 

Charlotte leans forward again and opens her mouth to speak, but like the saving fucking grace in corduroy and boat shoes that he is, Aris appears behind his sister and flicks her in the ear. 

“Char, what have we said about harassing customers?”

Charlotte whips around furiously and smacks Aris in he hip, flipping him off. “_ Ow _. Screw you, we’re having a conversation.” 

“Yeah sure,” Aris sways on his feet, disinterested. “Mom wanted me to tell you she’s making meatball soup, so hurry up and finish your shift so we can go. When’s it end, anyway?” 

On cue, a man in a black apron and coffee-stained shirt bellows, “Jones! Get back to work!” from behind the barista bar, and Charlotte cringes. 

“Ugh. Twenty minutes.” She stands, secures her apron around her hips so that it obscures the entirety of her denim skirt, and huffs. She flicks a curl over her shoulder and shifts back into service mode before their eyes. “It was lovely talking with you, Tom.” 

Thomas nods politely. “You, too.”

Charlotte winks and jogs up to the counter, taking the next customer’s order like she’d never moved out from behind it. Aris takes his sister’s place at the table and pulls out his phone, sighing. Thomas takes another sip of his hot chocolate, which has turned lukewarm, the marshmallows melted into a sugary blanket over the top of it. He watches Aris tap away at his phone and considers checking his messages – his phone has vibrated in his pocket at least five times since he’s sat down.

“You doin’ alright?” Aris asks, consonants drawling lazily. The question catches Thomas off guard. 

“What?”

Aris looks up from his phone, sharp green eyes as intense as always. “I’ve noticed you’ve been acting off lately, is all. Was wondering if anything was up.”

“Nothing’s up,” Thomas lies. 

Aris’ eyes shift to the box and back, pointedly. “Something’s up.” 

Thomas sighs and drains the rest of his cocoa in one gulp. The sheet of marshmallow clings to his upper lip like a moustache, and he hastily licks it off. Aris tracks the movement with his eyes (he was another in the poll for Thomas’ next relationship).

“It’s just … for some echo symptoms,” Thomas says, sliding the box over. 

Aris turns it around in his hand, squinting at it judgementally. “Yeah,” he says, “I had to take this a couple years ago. Gave me dyslexia.” Aris places it back on the table. Thomas feels the anxiety creep back in. “Don’t drink too much of it.”

Thomas nods robotically, and slips the box into his pocket, out of sight. 

“Also,” Aris continues, “Fair warning: it’ll make you drowsy but it might also give you insomnia. Just FYI. Have fun.” 

“Great,” Thomas groans, “Thanks.”

Aris winks charmingly, a mirror image of his sister, before moving back to his phone. Charlotte finishes her shift after five minutes and Thomas accompanies the siblings back to their car. Aris and Charlotte are bickering the entire way there and Thomas notices it when Charlotte goes to pull her hair out of its messy ponytail; the green/blue ring on her finger, swirling into yellow as they walk.

“Hey,” Thomas asks when they reach the car, “What’s that?”

Charlotte raises an eyebrow and brings her hand up to show him the ring. “This? It’s a mood ring. Aris bought it for my birthday.”

“A gimmick,” he calls from the other side of the car, unlocking the door. 

Thomas and Charlotte ignore him. “Mood ring?”

“Yeah. It changes colour depending on how I’m feeling. See how it’s turning yellow? That’s because Aris is so damn annoying.” 

“Skin temperature,” Aris mumbles, getting into the car.

“Oh, what do you know?” she barks. Aris slams the door in response. Charlotte turns back to Thomas with a huff. “Anyway. Cool huh?”

Thomas nods, and mumbles a _ Yeah, cool _in response, and watches them drive away without waving. 

He drives home in a strange state and shifts the car into auto park. He feeds the cats but not himself, and lies on the couch with Barnacle curled around him like a scarf, meowing sadly like she had been afraid he wouldn’t come back. Calypso chirrups bored as ever and watches birds on the tv.

The lime green catastrophic state the living room wall is in glares at him until he feels bad enough that he has to change it. 

He goes to bed leaving it in a deep gold number with Barnacle by his side, refusing to stray too far from his feet. 

He strokes her fur and listens to her purr as she drifts off to sleep against his hip. Thomas thinks back to the time four years ago when his parents took him to the animal centre to pick out a house pet. His mother had seen the prowling baby leopard in the corner, sitting in her cage like she owned it, and fell in love. Thomas had laid eyes on the small black cat who could barely stand on her own four paws without falling over as if her head weighed so much more than the rest of her body that it overthrew her balance, and fell in love. 

His father made fun of him for wanting the little kitten instead of the German Sheppard or the tiger but Thomas didn’t care. She’d fallen asleep the moment he picked her up, and slept in his arms the rest of the ride home. She had been as small as a sea barnacle, his mom said, scratching her lovingly behind the ears as Calypso laid in her lap, and the name stuck. 

Thomas sighs and changes into his pyjamas. Finally, he takes the bottle out of the box and stares at the shimmery yellow liquid for a handful of minutes before taking a deep breath. He unscrews the dropper and swallows three drops of medicine as Mary instructed. Pressing his hands to his chest, Thomas breathes in and out. 

He does not sleep a wink. 

– 

Thomas has just finished typing out a text to Newt asking how far away they are when he hears a musical horn blast in the near distance. He glances up to see a blue van decked to the high heavens in floral paraphernalia speeding down the street towards him. The van stops just short of scoring a strike with Thomas’ garbage bins and mailbox before the driver hits the breaks and the obnoxiously bright hell machine screeches to a halt in front of Thomas’ driveway. 

The door kicks open passionately and Thomas, startled to his feet, is greeted with Sonya’s beaming face as she shouts, “Get in, loser, we’re going stargazing!” because she has been obsessed with that old Earth movie, lately. 

A peek in through the tinted window reveals a very dispassionate Newt who is hiding his face and doing his best to sink into the backseat and, maybe, if the van were to crash into a tree and burst into flames immediately then, well, that’s life, what can you do? 

The back-passenger door slides open and Harriet climbs over Newt’s lap, who does nothing to help whatsoever, and gives a quick nod to Thomas before climbing into the passenger’s side and shutting the door. Thomas shakes his head at the display and jumps in the back. 

Newt straightens and slides over for him. Thomas’ heartbeat quickens at the sight of him for a moment before he smothers it down. 

Sonya barely waits for Thomas to buckle himself in before she speeds off, humming along to the song on the radio. 

Thomas bumps his knuckles against Newt’s and asks, “Is everyone else meeting us there?”

“Yep,” Sonya answers, popping the _ P _, “Needed room for the merchandise.” 

Thomas looks back to where the telescope and equipment sit in the very back of the van. “Fair enough.” 

The drive is mostly peaceful; Sonya and Harriet making small talk in between the googly eyes in the front and Thomas staring out the window while Newt slumps moodily in the back until Soya nearly misses a red light and has to brake too close to the tailgate of the car in front.

Newt swears and sits up, tense. “Can you watch the road, please?”

Soya frowns at him through the rear-view mirror. “It was an accident, relax. What’s wrong? Getting separation anxiety from your bike?”

Newt rolls his eyes and sits back and, with a start, Thomas realises that Newt is willingly (depending on your definition of the word) riding in his sisters _ Barf-mobile _ instead of his shiny black motorbike.

“Where is it?” Thomas asks.

“I was _ persuaded _,” Newt begins, the word dripping off his tongue like acid, “to ride along in here.”

“And don’t you love it?”

Newt makes a face.

“It’s okay, Newt,” Harriet says, reaching back to give Newt’s knee a firm pat, “We all go through it. A parent misses their baby on the first day of school, too.”

Sonya snorts a laugh. “What was it you named it again?”

“I didn’t –” Newt splutters, “I didn’t _ name _ it anything.” 

“No, I’m sure you named it something.”

“I’m sure you’re sure,” Newt grumbles. 

“Bet you did,” Sonya grins, turning onto the highway, “Can I take a guess? Does it rhyme with _ Promise _ –”

The car in front of the swerves into the next lane, and Thomas grips his seat. Newt swears very loudly. “Watch out!” 

Sonya gestures wildly out the window, “That was clearly their fault!” 

Newt covers his face with his hands and groans loudly. They drive past the car that cut in front of them and Harriet flips them off. The answering honk makes Thomas’ blood pressure spike.

“Can you pull over?” Newt is saying. “You are … too young to have your licence, I tried to tell mum – can we pull over?”

Sonya’s mouth drops open in deep offence. In the mirror Thomas and Harriet share a mutually uncomfortable look. “I am not too young!” She says, “You can drive my van when I’m dead.”

“That won’t be too far away if you don’t watch where you’re fucking going!”

“Will you just shut up and let me drive? I’d be able to focus a lot easier without your whiney voice at the back of my skull!” 

“Guy’s can we just –” Harriet attempts. 

Neither of them listens and continue to argue over one another. Thomas grips the side of the seat and counts the streets until they arrive at the monument. 

Sonya begins, “You’re just pissed because dad wants you to –” and Newt cuts her off with a sharp, stern, “_ Sonya _.”

The inside of the van falls to intermediate silence as they pull to a slow stop at a red light. From the rear-view mirror, Thomas sees Sonya roll her eyes, and her hands tighten on the wheel. 

“Whatever.” 

They drive on for another twenty minutes as the radio sings at them and Thomas taps his finger against the side door handle to the beat, aware of the tension radiating off Newt, sitting stiff in his seat and glaring out the window as the sun sets off the horizon, and Europa and Io begin to cross the sky. The shield bends at sunset and, for a few minutes a night, Jupiter is at its brightest. 

It is not as clear as it would be if one were to stand outside the parameters of the sector to be faced by The Great Planet in all its glory, to be overwhelmed by the all-encompassing Largeness of it until it fills the sky, and that is quite nearly all you can see. 

Thomas thinks he would like to see it that way, maybe. 

They turn off Salvation highway to begin their drive to the mountain when the sun finally dips below the edge of the moon and Thomas fidgets in his seat. He finds Newt quietly watching him from the corner of his eye, but looks away before Thomas can say anything. 

The monument glows as bright as neon even at night. It is supposedly, as they are told, an exact replica of a place once called Salvation Mountain which sat loud and fervent in the middle of the Californian desert. It carries on it’s existence millions of miles away from its predecessor much the same, and is during the day a sight for tourists or sightseers to visit and marvel over the raised bubble letters spelling out _ GOD IS LOVE _ and hang trinkets off the big white cross at the tip of the mountain, and marvel over a piece of Earth history. 

During the night it is a popular stop off point for people who still like to wonder at the stars and all that exists beyond their sector and the four moons, and generally quite a good spot to host parties and raves. 

They reach the clearing where everyone has parked without casualty and Newt wastes no time in shoving the door open and jumping out before the van comes to a complete stop. Thomas stumbles out after him and slides the door closed, softly. Sonya and Harriet remain inside. A heady bass pulses across the ground below them and the voices of dozens of party-goers carries over it. It makes the bones in Thomas’ chest tremble and he instantly feels more awake. 

Minho makes a beeline for the two of them, either unaware of Newt’s intention to get as far away from the van as possible or notably ignoring it, and tugs them both over to the back by their wrists. Together they begin to unload the telescopes as Sonya and Harriet finally jump out only to be immediately pounced on my Aris and Rachel, the former chattering on about the barbeque they've managed to char and the latter vehemently denying any sort of involvement in it. 

Thomas is given the heaviest bag to hoist over his shoulder as Newt lugs one telescope behind him on a trolley and Minho carries the smallest easily, whistling as he goes. 

He dumps it at Brenda’s feet, who begins to help him set up while Minho and Newt unfold the other on the other side of the mountain, to the right of the cross as Thomas and Brenda set up on the left. As soon as they are done Thomas has a beer shoved into his hand by Ben, who claps him on the back with an award-winning smile and does not stick around to chit chat. Thomas is tied up into a conversation with Aris and someone named Nick who Thomas vaguely recognises from their school, and, from the intensity of the heart-eyes Aris is sending him, Thomas wonders why he is involved in this trio at all. However, when the heart eyes occasionally shift into _ Please don’t leave me alone with this this really hot guy, we’re friends, right? _Thomas sighs and drains the rest of his drink, and resigns himself to being a third wheel for a little while. 

He’s misplaced Newt, he realises, and when the three of them are joined by Ben and Rachel, Thomas carefully chooses a gap in the conversation to leave. 

Newt is sitting on the dark side of the mountain where the fairy lights end and the darkness of the desert stares back at them with wide, glaring eyes. The large steps beneath him spell out _ LOVE IS UNIVERSAL _and Thomas runs his hand over the curve of the O when he sits down beside Newt. 

“Fine weather we’re having,” Thomas leads with, bumping Newt with his shoulder, tongue loose from the beer. 

“Yes, nothing but blue skies and sunshine,” Newt responds, eye roll prominent in his voice, but he grins a moment later and returns Thomas’ shoulder bump easily. He sips his drink and turns quiet, looking down his fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, and says a moment later, “Sorry about being so weird earlier.”

“What was up with that?” 

“Nothing,” Newt says, shaking his head and smiling at Thomas, but his eyes, like pools of night sky, and the line of his shoulders say otherwise. 

Thomas places his hand on Newt’s forearm, fingertips brushing the rolled-up edge of his sleeves, and waits until Newt’s expression clears to say, “Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“_Something _ happened,” Thomas insists. 

“It’s just –” Newt cuts himself off with a sigh. Thomas waits patiently as he drains the remainder of his drink and places it on the hard step beside him with a low _ clink! _ Then, he begins, “So I was at Ms. Paige’s house …”

Thomas nods, that familiar unsettled feeling curling in his stomach. Newt’s mother is one of the primary caretakers for a woman named Ava Paige, the former leader of WCKD and WCKD2 and the founder of the Callisto Project. The story goes as such: hundreds of years ago when the world was crumbling into a ball of dust and smoke it had been Ms. Paige’s idea for humanity to pack up their shit and try again at a new home. A fresh start. And with that fresh start came the Donation Program, the reason Thomas and Newt and so many others exist – the reason the human race still exists. 

Without The Program, humanity would have faded away into dust like it’s mother world. 

She is also the sole remaining first-generation human alive today, and she is _ very _ old. 

(“She’s, like, 300 years old,” Minho had remarked one night, scrunching his nose up at the zombies he was working on decapitating on screen.

“Technically, yes,” Newt replied, watching him do so with a neutral, almost bored expression, chewing on a granola bar.

“But she has to be at least 100 now,” Thomas said, groaning when his character was eaten by a zombie for the fourth time. “After all those years in cryo.”

“Don’t be so ageist,” Newt told them, voice curdling with disappointment, “She doesn’t look a day over ninety-eight.”)

Newt’s mom takes him and his sister to the house every now and then, because Ms. Paige likes to see them. Yesterday afternoon had been one of those occasions. 

Newt says, “She was in bed all day – hasn’t been feeling well, lately – so we mainly just sat around and read to her. Well, I read and Sonya played some piano while mum took care of food. She’d … been having another episode, yesterday. The ones where she forgets where she is and sometimes thinks she’s back on the old planet. I don’t –” Newt rubs at his eye, irritably, “We have medicine for that, now. I don’t understand why she doesn’t just take it.” 

Thomas fiddles with the nose of his bottle. He’d wondered that himself; and even brought Ms. Paige’s condition up with Mary once only to be met with a forlorn, pitiful look. He thinks, perhaps, the medicine they do have for the disease if curated for generation 2 humans and onward and, maybe, it doesn’t work for Ava. 

“Anyway,” Newt continues, “I was bringing her tea how she likes in the evenings, and I thought she was asleep so went to leave it beside her bed in case she woke up, but then I looked over at her and ...” Newt’s eyes grow distant, staring out at the vast darkness of the sector beyond. The bass thrums in tandem behind them. 

He continues after a breath, “She was just staring. Eyes wide open. Unblinking. At me and ... the look in her eyes was scared? But also sad, and when I put the tea down she grabbed my wrist, and, Tommy, she looks so small and frail but her grip was tight. She was crying and just kept saying ‘I’m so sorry’ over and over until mum came in to calm her down.”

Thomas sits back, the story making him feel strangely light-headed. A quorum of thoughts pulses through his head at quantum speed, most of them circling around the haunted, tragic expression that the woman must have worn on her face at that moment, judging by the look on Newt’s. He tries to voice some sort of reassurance, any, really, but in the end all that manages its way out past Thomas’ lips is, “Shit.” 

Newt takes a deep breath, shaky, and nods. “Yeah. And I know it sounds odd but it felt like she was talking to me. Or … whoever she thought I was, I guess.” He gets this strange look on his face, then, and whispers, “Maybe …”

“Maybe what?” Thomas asks when Newt does not finish his sentence. Newt blinks out into the darkness a moment longer before something flashes across his face lightning fast and then gone the next. He turns to Thomas with a tight-lipped smile.

“Nothing,” he says, “Nothing you need to worry about.” 

Thomas frowns but decides for now not to push. If Newt wants to talk he will talk, whether or not it ever happens. They finish the rest of their beers in comfortable small talk, then eventually Thomas, arms heavy, the stars blending together when he looks up, asks, “Had a look through the telescope yet?” 

“No,” Newt says, obviously, “I was waiting for you.” 

Thomas and Newt climb the hill towards one of the telescopes, feet kicking against the dust fallen across the blue and white striped road, and Thomas says, “Remember the summer before freshman year – mine – when you were convinced you’d discovered a new exoplanet but it was just Autonoe?”

Newt tries to kick him but Thomas dodges, some of his beer sloshing out of the bottle head. “I _ did _,” Newt says, heated, “It was behind Autonoe.” 

Thomas laughs. “_Oh _-kay. What was it you named it? Gary?”

He gets him in the ass this time and Thomas yelps, all the beer sloshing out. 

“_Gerald _, you ass,” Newt snarls. 

Thomas laughs harder, which earns him another kick.

Newt goes first, and Thomas allows himself a moment to stand back and just take him in; nose scrunched as he peeks into the telescope, hair and shoulders painted a spectrum of neon under the lights strung across the monument. The night looks good on Newt, Thomas thinks, the way shadows illuminate the moons as they glisten across the water like diamonds. Newt and _ hm _ ing and _ ah _ing into the telescope and while it is inherently adorable, Thomas breaks the moment and says, “Found Gerald yet?”

Newt, still looking into the telescope, murmurs, “No, but …” and reaches a hand out for Thomas, fingers wiggling. Thomas, mind fuzzy with alcohol, reaches back without thinking and allows Newt to slip his fingers in between his own, and pull him closer. 

Newt tugs him in until they are a breath away, Thomas’ collar bone colliding with Newt’s shoulder and his nose ends up in his hair, which smells of earthy smoke and sea salt. “What?” he asks, startled, and when Newt looks at him he is transported back to that afternoon on Newt’s bedroom floor, Newt’s hand on the back of his neck and his nose brushing his skin, lips touching in an accident of circumstance. 

Now, as before, Newt’s mouth is pink and glistening wet from the alcohol, and his cheeks flush, eyes electric and wide. 

It takes him a moment to breathe again. 

“Look,” Newt says, and tugs Thomas closer again until he stands in front of the telescope lens. “Look up.”

Thomas closes his left eye and beds down to peek into the telescope. At first, he is not quite sure what it is he is looking at, the round impression of a grey ball in front of him refusing the focus, until he feels Newt’s hand (his free hand, the other still linked with Thomas’) twist a dial below the telescope, and the image sharpens. The impression of a planet shifts into more of a fleshed out idea of one, the grey turning to brown. A small gasp escapes past his lips when his eyes completely tune in to the fact that he is looking at the old, dusty remains of the Old Planet, barren and dead. 

It isn’t like Thomas hasn’t seen what the old world looks like beyond the green and blue idealist portraits hung up in galleries across the four moons; he’s seen images, spectral maps and drawings, imaginations of what the great blue planet once resembled, but somehow none of them truly manage to articulate the overall encompassing emptiness of the planet like looking at it straight on does. 

Newt turns another dial and the image zooms and sharpens even more, and now Thomas can make out shapes and landmarks among the brown planet. Giant landmarks, bigger than any he’s ever seen on Callisto. He supposes those were once called _ continents_. 

Newt shifts closer and Thomas almost starts when the quick puff of his breath disturbs the fine hairs that curl around his ear. “Do you see that curve there? The big landmass?” he asks, finger moving in Thomas’ proverbial vision to trace the shape of the curve Thomas is meant to be looking at. 

“The one that narrows out into, like, a tail thing?” he asks. 

Newt nods. His chin shies short of resting on Thomas’ shoulder. The landmass in question cuts in half and teeters off into an elongated scalene triangle. It rises above what Thomas assumes is the seafloor and casts a strange, three-dimensional shadow across the earth. 

“Yeah,” Newt hums. “They called that South America. One of the seven continents of Earth.” 

“It sort of looks like a …” Thomas squints, tilts his head, “fish.”

Newt snorts. “A _ fish_, Tommy?”

“Yeah, see there’s the head and then there’s the tail, and that broken off landmass are the fins –”

Newt laughs. It’s high and airy in Thomas’ ear, and stirs warmth in his chest. “Yeah, you know now that you mention it I can almost see – Yeah, still no, sorry.”

Thomas elbows him in the ribs and Newt dodges, grabbing Thomas’ hips to steady himself. Thomas clears his throat and moves away from the telescope. For a moment Newt looks like he is teetering on the edge of speaking, his mouth twitching and eyes unsure, and Thomas waits patiently, thinking about the scene in the car and the far off look in his eyes when he stared off into the void darkness and Sonya’s, _ You’re just mad because dad – _

Which is of course when a drunk couple bounds obnoxiously up the stairs, their arms around each other, the girl squealing excitedly about space while her boyfriend presses himself against her ass and they attempt to look through the telescope together, Newt is dislodged from the podium, forcing Thomas to catch him before he could go rolling down the hill. Newt snorts a laugh behind his fist and Thomas shakes his head, and they leave. 

Their friends have made up a party circle of their own by a small cavern painted with flowers and rainbow motifs. Minho calls out when he sees them and Newt and Thomas plonk themselves down beside a flower that says _ Love Is Free _ on its face, which chillingly reminds Thomas of the animated asshole on his kitchen fridge. 

It carries on for a while as most of their nights do; mindless chatter about whatever anyone has on their mind, usually followed by a football story from Ben, Gally interrupting at random points to correct any part of the story which is apparently wrong, leaving them with a strange, convoluted tale which does not make any sense. Brenda would then talk and Minho would flick rocks at Gally to get his attention and Teresa would lean against Rachel and remain quiet, and Thomas would be concerned for a minute before becoming distracted with the way Newt’s jacket is tugging at his shirt to expose his collarbone. 

Thomas doesn’t realise they’ve begun an impromptu game of Truth Or Dare until he hears his name called, and notices a couple of things: Teresa is sitting in Minho’s lap, Ben and Rachel are wearing their shoes as hats and Gally’s face has gone red, for whatever reason. Newt’s jacket is now tied around his waist and Thomas pointedly does not follow the line of his back down to his tapered hips.

Brenda has a malicious twinkle in her eye that Thomas does not catch heed of until he says, “Yes?” and it’s too late. 

“Truth or dare, pretty boy,” Brenda says. 

“Uh …” Thomas, weighing his options and deciding that he trusts Brenda as far as he can throw her in terms of having him spill all his deepest, darkest secrets, and settles with: “Dare?”

Brenda’s grin spreads and Minho winces, and Thomas realises he’s probably fucked either way. 

“I dare you,” Brenda begins, “to switch clothes with Newt.”

Oh, of course. 

“Everything. Shoes, socks, underwear too.”

Of _ course._

Thomas’ face burns as everyone in the circle begins to hoot and whistle, and Newt stiffens beside him, squawking in outrage, “Why am I being roped into this? It’s not even my turn.”

Brenda shrugs. “Casualty of circumstance. Now!” She claps her hands, “Go on, hurry up. And no cheating! I’ll know.”

Thomas really doesn’t want to know how, exactly, she will know – especially on the topic of their underwear, but doesn’t particularly want to hear the answer. He and Newt stand up and proceed to sulk further into the brightly lit cavern of flowers and rainbows while their friends holler at their backs, their voices eventually fading into an echo. They exit into a wonderland hall of bright blue pillars of flowers, green and pink trees, and yellow walls where it is tradition, apparently, to write your name absolutely everywhere.

(There is a corner somewhere to the left with four names scribbled in black marker, that reads _ Thomas Newt Minho Teresa _.)

Newt’s shoe scuffs against the sandy floor and echoes around the cavern. They are very alone. 

“I’ll take this corner,” Newt says, gesturing vaguely over to one of the blue pillars. 

Thomas shrugs, casually. “Sure.” 

“Oh,” Newt says, stopping him before he could turn away, and unties the jacket from his waist to hand over to Thomas. “You can have this now, I guess.” 

Thomas takes the jacket, numb, and curls his fingers into the warm leather fabric. “Thanks.” 

They each face a wall and undress as fast as possible. Thomas works on the buttons of his shirt with shaky hands and tries not to pay attention to the sound of Newt unzipping his jeans, and more so the sound of them falling to the floor. Every small noise in this room in this room is amplified; the clink of his belt buckle against the button on his jeans when pushes them down and Newt’s small grunts as he pulls off his shoes without bothering with the laces. Hyper aware, Thomas holds his breath.

The socks come last even after he takes off his boxer shorts, and when they are both stripped down to nothing Thomas stands with his clothes bundled into a ball in his arms, goosebumps on his skin not from the cold. Newt’s jacket lies at his feet, waiting. 

“So,” Thomas starts, voice cracking a hair fraction at the end, “how are we going to do this?”

“Just leave yours on the floor beside you and I’ll come grab it and replace it with mine,” Newt answers like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He must feel the anxiety pulsing off Thomas in waves because he follows that up with, “I promise not to look, Tommy.” 

Thomas trusts him not to, and the plan is a lot better than what Thomas had been thinking which was to throw their clothes at each other over their shoulders. Thomas tells him yes and leaves his bundle by his feet. He closes his eyes when he hears the sound of Newt’s bare feet padding across the floor toward him, on instinct, only opening them when he hears Newt’s faint, “Okay,” back on the other side of the room. 

He looks down to find his clothes replaced by Newt’s much neater pile. 

They begin to dress and Thomas pulls the underwear on before he can think too much of it. He’s tugged Newt’s shirt over his head when he hears Newt click his tongue from across the room, and he asks, “Man, what is it with you and fish?” very obviously referring to Thomas’ white shirt with orange goldfish print he’d decided to wear tonight. 

Thomas shrugs and mumbles, “I like fish,” and secures the belt around his hips before leaning down to tug on Newt’s boots. 

They both end up needing to roll up their jeans – Thomas because they’re too long and Newt because they are too short, and only once Thomas slips his arms into the sleeves of the jacket and pulls it up over his shoulders does he turn around. 

Newt is fiddling with the small buttons of the goldfish shirt, tugging at the length of it irritably.

Thomas says, “You have to tuck that in.” 

“I’ll wear it how I like,” Newt responds. He leaves it hanging outside of the jeans. Something happens when he stops and looks up; the light shifts or the wind changes, blinking at fluttering around them like nervous butterflies as Newt’s eyes scale the length of Thomas’ body once, twice, and back up, and Thomas hugs himself despite not feeling cold. The last time he’d worn this much black was at his uncle’s funeral when he was nine.

“Looks good,” Newt mumbles, blinks, and reiterates, “_ It _ looks good. On you. The, uh,” he gestures to nothing, really, “the jacket.”

Thomas’ lungs burn, and he lets all the air he’d been holding in them out. “You too,” he mumbles, stupidly, “Orange is really your colour.” 

Newt rolls his eyes. “Shut up. The collar’s wrong. Come here.” 

Newt fixes the collar of his jacket until it is decent by his standards, and when he is done his eyes light up like he’s just remembered something, and digs into the inside pocket to pull out the ice crystal. He hands Thomas back his, who is surprised to find that they re both glowing a vibrant lilac. 

“What do you think it means?” Thomas asks, tossing his crystal in the air and watching it land in his palm like a small potato, pulsing indigo on impact. 

“The colours?” Newt shrugs. “Not sure. I assumed at first it was some kind of temperature reaction, or they’re somehow connected to the moon, which sounds silly, yes, I know, but when you look at them –” Newt holds it up to his eye, which the crystal enlarges by 40%, “They’re almost like mini Callistos.” 

Thomas raises an eyebrow, watching Newt’s eye blink at him through the sphere. “All good theories.” 

“Oh?” Newt lowers the crystal, “You have a better one?”

“Uh. Not exactly.” 

“Didn’t think so.”

“Mini moons. Yeah, okay, sure.”

“Don’t laugh –” Newt jabs him in the ribs. 

“I’m not laughing! It’s a great idea, really. I couldn’t’ve come up with it.” 

Newt sobers, suddenly, and looks down at the crystal which is now swirling with a rosy pink. “I have another idea, actually.”

“Yeah?” Thomas asks, “What is it?”

Brenda’s voice bellows through the cavern in a loud echo, and scares them both quite nearly out of their skin. “_Boys! This isn’t seven minutes in heaven, what’s taking so long? _” 

The question is followed by something Thomas doesn’t catch, laughter, and a slap before Ben’s, _ OUCH! _ reverberates loudly through the cavern.

“We should go,” Thomas says. “We’re probably hogging up someone’s make out space.”

“Yeah, probably,” Newt agrees, pocketing his crystal. 

They arrive back to the room their friends sit in to find that Sonya, Harriet, and Aris have now joined the bunch and that the group has, somehow in the few minutes they were gone, gotten so much drunker. At the moment they all seem to have dissolved into a den of giggling and mild sniffling – Teresa’s cheeks have gone red and Minho has tears welling in the corner of his eyes – and none of them pay any attention to Thomas and Newt’s reappearance despite what earlier shouting might have suggested. 

Thomas wiggles his toes in Newt’s shoes – almost too small for him – and Newt plays with the collar of his shirt some more before bringing his fist to his mouth and coughing, loudly. The spell is broken at almost comical light speed as their friends remember their existence and heads turn toward them. There is a still pause in the air as no one does much of anything before someone screams outside the cavern and what sounds like a medium grade firework goes off followed by several whoops, and then everyone cheers. Thomas and Newt are tugged back into the circle by their wrists and ankles; Newt falling almost on top of Ben and Minho, and Teresa tugging Thomas down between them, not gently. He winces when his ass collides painfully with the hard ground. No one notices. 

“Alright, alright!” Thomas cries, shaking his head with – he can’t help it, they’re awfully insufferable most of the time but they’re his closest friends – laughter, “Who’s next?” 

The following few hours pass by in a spectrum blur of drunken misdemeanours that would only be considered misdemeanours if there was anyone sensible around to call them that. 

The events commencing after Newt and Thomas returned to the group consisted of the following: Sonya and Harriet are dared to make out (Newt covered his eyes and sang for the duration of it), Aris told the group of a time when he set a guy’s hair on fire in science class because he made his sister cry on the playground during lunch, and Brenda unabashedly, whilst downing a full cup of beer, shares a sexual fact about herself that makes Thomas choke on his own beer. 

Minho and Gally are dared by Ben to slow dance at the edge of the cave to the steady thrum of the music outside – which they do, uneventfully, Minho continuing a conversation with Harriet with his arms locked around Gally’s neck and Gally trying to avoid contact with absolutely everyone, his hands resting comfortably on Minho’s hips. 

Thomas, Minho, and Newt are later dared by Teresa to race from the cave to the other side of the monument and back, which many a tired drunk half-collapsed in the sand or on the stairs definitely enjoyed.

(Minho won but only because he cheated by playing dirty and shoving Newt backward into Thomas so they would both collide and almost fall to the ground. Newt vigorously swung one of Thomas’ one-size-too-big shoes off his foot with ease and just missed Minho’s head by a centimeter, the little shit’s smug laugh echoed in the cave when he burst into it.)

Thomas does not pick truth once. Neither, incidentally, does Newt. 

The world is a comfortable hazy buzz by the time two o’clock in the morning rolls in, and couples have begun to less than subtly loiter by the entrance of the cave and eye their little cavern. When one pair decides to ignore the group’s presence completely and begin down the small tunnelled hallway where Newt and Thomas swapped clothes, they agree it’s _ really _ time to leave. 

The group disperses slowly at a time, the whole of them split in two; Thomas, Newt and Harriet with the new addition of Minho and their designated driver – Sonya, who is having far too much fun with watching Minho attempt to have Thomas and Newt carry him by forcing them to catch him every time he jumps on either one of their backs. On the other side of the spectrum is Gally, who appears far less amused as Brenda, Teresa, Aris, Rachel, and Ben hold on to one another like a large, poorly balanced ten-legged anomaly, and sing to the heavens at the top of their lungs. 

Thomas leaves Minho with Newt, currently attempting to curl himself like a snake around the latter’s midsection – lots of shouting, much swearing – and leans over to Gally to elbow him in the ribs and whisper, “Trade you that one for Teresa.”

Gally glares obtusely in the way that his lips sort of twitch, undeterminable, and his cheeks flash a shade of pink. 

“Keep him. I don’t need the back seat of my car to be filled with puke, thank you very much.”

Thomas says, “Are you sure? Might cover the smell of weed and existential trepidation.” 

Gally looks tired, like it’s too early in the morning for words longer than two syllables. “You’re so fucking weird.” Then he claps his hands, and the force of it sends Thomas laughing back into Newt and Minho’s arms. “Okay, dipshits. Last one to the car pays for its power credits for a week!” 

The ten-legged monster cries out and begins its stampede toward the general direction of Gally’s car with grace and poise. Gally sighs. Thomas briefly wonders how everyone is going to fit in there. 

When Thomas turns around Minho is whispering something in Newt’s ear that is making him shake his head fondly and shoot Thomas an amused look. He doesn’t learn what it is Minho is saying, as his friend dissolves into frivolous giggles a moment after, burying his face in Newt’s neck. Thomas smiles and helps drag Minho to the Mystery Machine where he makes himself comfortable strewn across the entire back seat, head on Newt’s lap and feet in Thomas’. 

Newt and his sister appear to be on speaking terms again, and she only gripes at him a little when he half-heartedly backseat drives. Minho is completely passed out and drooling on Newt’s jeans – _ Thomas’ jeans _, he reminds himself grudgingly – and Newt doesn’t seem to notice, eyes blinking at the gleaming lights of the city as they drive through. Harriet dozes in the front seat, her knees pulled in to her chest and one of Sonya’s hands threaded loosely with hers. Thomas’ mind feels too wired and his body too loose to fall asleep. 

Salvation never quite rests or stops, but there is something sleepy about the way the lights above the boulevard strip reflects on the shiny tops of cars driving beside them. Thomas leans his head against the window and watches the water as they drive home, curling his fingers into the leather of Newt’s jacket.

Getting Minho out of the car is both an easier feat than he imagined, and incredibly difficult because their friend is either one extreme or the other and never anything in between. The hard part is waking him up and keeping him awake long enough to drag his ass out of the back seat. First, it was gentle prodding, which was entirely ignored. Then they moved on to shaking, which lead to harder shaking, and then calling his name before Sonya sighed and reached back to land a hard smack on Minho’s thigh. It worked, at least, but he ended up kicking Thomas in the sternum which sent him propelling from the car out of the open door and on to the grass, barely missing the cactus garden.

While he regains his breath, Newt reprimands both his sister and Minho, Harriet quiet – probably still asleep, somehow, or at least pretending to be – and by the time he has recovered Minho is standing before him, wobbly and still pretty out of it, yet his eyes hold an apologetic bleariness to them. Newt hauls him up from the soft grass of Minho’s front lawn and together they proceed to guide Minho toward his house. 

All the houses in the neighbourhood are angular and dramatic, but Minho’s parents decided to take this to the next level by building the entire front facade of their house triangular. It still takes Thomas off guard when he sees the large prism with its slanted windows and wide, square door. Right now, it is absolutely awe-inducing. Thomas can see one light open inside but no sight of Minho’s parents, thank Jupiter. Minho stops just short of his front door when Newt digs around in his pockets for the keys to unlock it, and looks at Thomas. Thomas looks back. Newt glares at the keys, trying to decide which one is right. 

“What?” Thomas asks the strange look on Minho’s face. He is no longer swaying but his eyes are far, far away. 

“Everything,” Minho says, cryptically. 

Thomas frowns. He is no longer swaying, either, but he braces himself against the stone accent wall anyway. “Everything’s what?” 

“A lot,” Minho says, and then, “I think I might be in love.”

Thomas blinks. Newt stops looking for the key. “Oh. With … with who?”

Minho doesn’t answer. He turns, takes the keys from Newt’s hands and unlocks the door in a second. Minho walks inside, and the door closes behind him without another word. 

“Well,” Newt mutters as they continue to stand there and stare at Minho’s blue door in surprise. “That’s … that, I suppose. We should hurry up before Sonya gets pissed and – where the fuck did they go?” 

Thomas whirls around at Newt’s tone of outrage to find the driveway empty, no Wonder Wagon in sight. 

“Too late,” Thomas mutters. Newt swears again. “Maybe they thought we were crashing here?” Thomas adds, and bites his tongue when he sees Newt’s _ Do you really believe that? _expression. 

Thomas watches Newt sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose before irritably digging a hand into his pockets. He pauses, remembering that these are _ Thomas’ _ pockets, and turns toward Thomas with a smile. Thomas holds very still when Newt pulls one half of his jacket to the side to reach into the small pocket on the inside of the leather to pull out a lighter and two blunts. 

Thomas blinks when Newt leans back out of his personal space once again and places one joint between his lips and offers the other to Thomas. 

“You had those in there the whole time?” Thomas asks, incredulously. 

“Yes?” Newt says, just as incredulous, “You couldn’t feel it?”

Thomas chooses not to admit that up until this moment he’d been too preoccupied with the scent of Newt’s shampoo mixed into the leather of the jacket and slips the extra joint between his lips, allowing Newt to light it. They linger out the front of Minho’s house for a short while as they wait for the narcotics to kick in when Thomas notices goosebumps have risen on Newt’s arms.

“Shit, sorry,” Thomas starts, “You can have this back.”

Newt stops him with a hand on his arm when Thomas begins to take the jacket off, freezing him in place. “No, no! It’s okay – you keep it.” Newt smiles and tugs at Thomas’ jacket tied around his waist to free it, “I’ve got yours, after all.” 

Thomas watches Newt slip his jacket around his shoulders and something sneaks its way passed the fog in his mind and clicks. He launches forward and begins to rifle through his jackets like Newt had done, his friend’s startled cry muffled by the smoke between his lips. Thomas swears. 

“What is it?”

“My keys,” Thomas groans, “They must have fallen out when we were in van. My wallet, too – _ Fuck_,” he reiterates. “I’ll just call Sonya and –”

Thomas’ hand is stalled halfway into his pocket, fingertips pinched against the top when Newt stops him with, wrapping his fingers around Thomas’ wrist. Thomas blinks up, surprised, and Newt slowly takes his hand away and buries it in a jean pocket. 

“Don’t bother. My sister and Harriet are probably –” Newt stops, nose scrunching unpleasantly. “She won’t hear it ringing.”

“Newt …” Thomas sighs, rubbing his temple. The smoke is beginning to lighten his senses except instead of making everything seem hazy and humorous it is only beginning to stress him out. The cats are alone and miserable and he will never be able to get inside his house again and he left the living room _ orange _. 

Orange!

O-r-a-n-g-e. 

He is a terrible person. 

Newt places both hands on his shoulders and shakes him a little. Thomas whines. “Tommy. Stop, it’s alright. Look, we’ll just … You can come to mine, or –”

“Or?” Thomas asks, peeking an eye open. 

Newt bites his lip in contemplation and squints into the dim, yellow lit distance of the street lights trailing the length of the sleepy neighbourhood. After a moment he turns back to Thomas and, with eyebrows raised and hopeful, says, “Last bus to Salvation?” 

They just came from there, a small part of Thomas attempts to reason with himself, and it is very early in the morning, and at any moment the smoke will wipe away all anxiety, making him forget about his temporary predicament of homeless and make him wired, and too aware of everything but of nothing at all, and it is far, far too late to be thinking about how good the tone of Newt’s skin works against the colour of Thomas’ clothes on him, and how his hair curls around his ears, and how the fish swim up his torso and weave in through those golden locks like how Thomas longs to, and bury themselves in for the winter – 

Oh, well. Never mind then. 

Thomas thrusts his fist in the air like a character in an old movie and chants, “Last bus to Salvation!” 

They almost don’t make it, and might have missed the bus entirely had Thomas not dove through the automatic doors just as they were closing and stopped them with the width of his shoulders. Newt snickered under his breath and shook his head as he pushed Thomas the rest of the way inside, allowing the doors to finally glide shut and the angry, monotone voice to stop telling them to _ Please do not obstruct the doorways. Please remove the hindering object immediately. _

It is called a bus for all the reasons expect for actually looking like a bus. Sentimental reasons, really – the sort of vintage ensemble aesthetic that surrounds their entire civilisation exists simply because the sector’s engineers like to reminisce about an era they never existed in. 

Thomas scopes the length of his clothes on Newt’s body and thinks about high school boys in old movies with big glasses and slicked back hair who were pushed around in the schoolyard and who spent their time making model rocket ships in their dad’s garages. He thinks of Teresa’s ruby red lips and blue eyeshadow and thinks of girls hanging out the front of convenience stores, sipping on their Slurpees and popping their gum, and of Sonya with her large, round earrings and flared jeans and floral coated everything. He thinks of his mother’s pin curled waves and his father’s ties he wears even on the weekends. 

He sees the celebrities who walked around with their pet tigers on leashes in his mind’s eye, of the movie stars with large sunglasses and bright, blinding smiles. Comic books and superheros dressed in primary colours, and space travel paraphernalia. 

He looks down at Newt’s clothes on his body and thinks of boys in leather and slicked back hair, who always had a cigarette between their teeth and who pushed the boys who dressed like Thomas against the lockers and laughed.

Their world is built on fragments of one that formerly housed people who looked and walked and talked like Thomas, just like Thomas is built on fragments of a boy who looked and walked and talked just as he does. 

The night bus slowing at one of the ports pulls Thomas gently out of his thoughts. The bus pulls to a complete stop and sits for a minute or two, doors wide open. Crickets sing, and the desert stretches out in front of them. 

No one gets on the bus. 

They continue on. 

Newt makes himself at home on one of the benches in their empty cabin and stretches out. The jeans ride up mid-calf, exposing a slim ankle and pale skin with light hair that catches the light. The smoke still cradling Thomas’ mind wants to reach out and touch, wondering if they feel as soft as they look. He does not – realising that wanting to ambiguously trail his fingers over his platonic friend’s leg hair is a bit strange, even given the circumstances – and takes a seat opposite Newt, pulling his knees into his chest. 

Newt rests with his chin atop his fist, temple pressing against the glass. The passing lights turn his face ghostly pale. 

He wonders what colour his ice crystal would be now, and wonders how much of Thomas it would give away. 

Ever since that conversation with Charlotte, Thomas has been wondering more and more about the crystal. The smaller pearl on Charlotte’s ring had looked almost identical to the spheres, even swirled the way their spheres do. _ Mood Ring _ , Charlotte had said, _ It reacts to how I’m feeling. _Thomas laid in bed that night with the crystal pressed in close to his nose and thought of a time when he was angry. The colours deepened for a moment and the slightest hint of black glitter begin to form among the blue for only a moment before they simmered out, and the indigo/cerulenin continued its perpetual orbit within the sphere. 

He is hyperaware of the weight of it in the pocket of his jeans, and itches to know what it is doing. 

Thomas clamps his hands under his knees and does not move. 

Newt’s eyes are on him when he eventually looks back up, pupils blown wide but bizarrely alert, his free hand hanging lazily off his thigh with fingers delicately curled, and the toe of his shoes are touching Thomas’ ankles. It is the look that Thomas sees when he closes his eyes and imagines Newt pressing him against the frame of his bed and sliding a hand down the front of his pants. 

He bristles and sits up straighter. The corner of Newt’s lips twitch into an imitation of a smile. 

The fluorescent light of the carriage is hurting his eyes a little but Thomas stares back at Newt unblinking. “What?” he asks.

Newt shrugs, the corner of his mouth pulling into the plasticine smile again. Thomas imagines rosebuds forming against the slow bat of his eyelashes. 

“I’m just happy, I guess,” Newt says. 

Thomas says, “I guess?” and Newt shrugs again, his eyes shifting to somewhere far away, and presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Dahlia petals fall from his coral pink lips and Thomas just wants to reach over and touch him.

The train eventually stops at the Junction connecting all of Salvation’s attractions and stations. It is deserted as expected, given the night bus won’t be running in either direction for at least another two hours. Their footsteps echo on the sleek white tile as they walk down the empty platform to make their way out. The night guard is asleep in his booth, and Newt stops for a moment to press his finger to his lips before they jump the barrier and sneak the remainder of the way through the station to the outside. 

The air is cool on Thomas’ cheeks and the salty taste on his tongue from the ocean nearby is refreshing and familiar. Newt is digging into his pockets again, seemingly forgetting every five-to-ten minutes that they are still Thomas’ pockets, and Thomas’ stomach is rumbling. Being high always equals feeling hungry with him, so he bumps Newt’s hip with his own to gain his attention, smiling. The chain on his belt clinks when it hits Newt’s belt. 

“Hungry?” Newt asks, grinning. Thomas’ stomach answers for him. Newt’s grin broadens. “Food?” 

“Yes,” Thomas agrees and squints down the street for a moment, taking in all the close signs and roller shutters. “Might be a little hard, though,” he deduces. 

They find a vending machine outside the front of a 24-hour convenience store and trick the machine into giving them two candy bars for the price of one (a technique Minho invented when they were in middle school: key in a different code as soon as you pay for the first one, and then press the green button once more. The second number overwrites the first and confuses the machine, causing it to spit out both items at once.) With their winnings in hand, Thomas and Newt begin a lazy stroll down the strip toward the beach. Energy replenished and sugar levels up they become chatty, Thomas is now beginning to walk with a spring in his step and Newt smiles a little more, perfectly patient when Thomas changes the subject of their already indiscriminate conversation every two minutes. 

“I just think, you know,” Thomas begins, walking backward, “Standardised tests.”

“Standardised tests?” Newt raises an eyebrow, reaching out to steady Thomas when they begin down the slope leading to the beach. 

“Yeah. You know.”

“Do I?” 

“Do we need them?”

“Easy for you to say, Mister I could have skipped three grades but chose not to. For some bloody reason.” 

(The reason was Newt and Minho and Teresa, and the thought of moving forward without any of them by his side terrorized his dreams and kept him up at night.) 

“I just mean –” Thomas jumps the fence instead of walking five paces around it, and hears Newt tut at him, “We spend most of our last two years writing essays and reports and articles to then present to whatever corporation we decide we want to spend the rest of our lives working for at the end of high school, and on top of that we have to sit in a room for two hours every month, and answer questions about everything we’re already writing about?”

Newt shrugs. He walks around the fence. “I don’t know, maybe some people like the break. Helps refresh your knowledge, remind you what it really is you’re working on. What you _ want _ to be working on.” 

They reach the sand, and Thomas at the edge of it where the grass ends to take off his shoes. Newt does the same. 

“But that’s my point, it’s just –” He cuts off, falling on to the ground with the effort of pulling off one shoe without the forethought of unlacing it first. 

Newt watches him with humour pinching his cheeks. “Tommy, don’t start complaining about homework as if you actually do it.”

“I do my homework!” Thomas squawks, looing around for the other shoe before realising it’s still on his foot. 

“Glancing over it once and then filling in all the right answers isn’t _ doing your homework_, Tommy. Doing something requires actual effort. It’s meant to be a challenge.”

Newt kneels down in front of Thomas and unlaces the boot for him, mumbling, “There you go, Cinderella,” under his breath when he gets it off. 

Thomas throws a handful of sand at Newt’s shoulder. He blinks at the spot where the tiny grains hit with confusion, before looking back at Thomas and asking, “Did you just throw sand at me?”

Thomas shrugs vaguely, his fingers curling around another handful. It hits Newt in the chin this time, some grain escaping down the front of his shirt. Newt jumps and tugs at the front of it to let them escape out the bottom, and cries, “Really?” 

His eyes light up and Thomas thinks, _ Oh shit, _only just managing to dodge before the kick lands, a predecessor to the bound of sand that is hauled at his ass a moment after he launches up from the ground to begin fleeing down the length of the beach. Thomas hears Newt swear before the shoes are thrown to the side, and his friend begins to chase after him, shouting as he goes. 

The sand is soft beneath his feet and his form clumsy as Thomas runs as fast as he can, chancing a look back about halfway down to find Newt only a hand full of paces behind him. He cries out and runs faster. Newt swears louder. 

Thomas makes it to the part of the beach where the sand turns hard when he feels arms encircle his waist from behind. He shouts when he is lifted up from the ground and spun violently to the side. Thomas wriggles and flaps his arms for freedom which only results in tangling his feet up with Newt’s, causing his friend to lose his balance and send them both falling to a heap on the sand. They hit the ground with a grunt and Thomas coughs out a laugh, attempting to roll away but Newt is too fast, rolling on top of him and pinning his wrists to the sand, sitting on his hips. 

They both shouting and insulting the other and Thomas is kicking wildly but Newt is unyielding, shifting back to press Thomas’ thighs down flat as well, trapping him entirely. 

“Okay, okay!” Thomas gasps, chest heaving, “I yield.” 

Newt cocks his head to the side, “Do you now?”

Thomas laughs, the gravity pressing on his chest while laying on his back with Newt on his hips bringing them out of him irrepressibly. 

“I don’t think I believe you,” Newt says when he tries yet again to wiggle free. 

“Well, then that’s your problem, not mine.” 

Newt hums. “I think if I let you up you’re just going to kick sand in my face and run off again.”

“Is that so?” 

“Yep.”

Thomas huffs. “Nice hypothesis. Promise I won’t.” 

Newt grins. “Pinkie promise?”

“You’d have to let go of one of my arms for that.” 

“Mn, yeah, you’re right. Too risky.” 

Thomas squeezes his eyes shut and pressing his head further into the sand, whining, “Newt!” 

“Nope,” Newt objects, popping the _ P _.

Thomas takes a breath. Newt’s thumb brushes over the pulse point of his wrist and sends shivers down his spine, and this is the moment Thomas realises the situation has potential to become very, _ very _ dangerous. “You can’t keep me here forever,” he says.

“Probably could, though.” 

“Yeah?” Thomas says, eyebrow cocking, “How are you going to do that?” 

There is a shift in the structure of Newt’s expression and a change in the wind where Thomas feels it everywhere on his body all at once. The grip on his wrists tighten and his nerves become wired and hyperaware – of the sweat on the back of his next and the sand sticking to it, of the hair still caught in the very corner of his mouth, of the span of Newt’s dark eyelashes as he gazes down at Thomas. Once again, Thomas is rudely reminded of the afternoon on Newt’s bedroom floor, the world warm and fuzzy and the feel of Newt’s hand, soft, on the back of his neck when he pulled him in, feeling intoxicated for an entirely different reason. 

Back then Newt pulled him in. Now he blinks and Thomas watches reality fill his eyes. He releases Thomas’ wrists slowly and crawls off of him to fall on to the sand. Thomas lies quietly beside him, pins and needles filling his fingers and toes, and feeling strangely angry. 

Newt sighs out through his nose and when five minutes have passed, Thomas asks, “What are you really going to be doing after summer?”

“I don’t know,” Newt says, picking at a nail, “Probably continue working at the museum. Maybe even work at the seven-eleven or something.” 

Thomas turns to look at him. Newt keeps staring at the stars. 

“Sounds like fun,” he says.

Newt shrugs noncommittally. “Or,” he continues, “Maybe the mining base on Europa.” 

Thomas’ heart, inexplicably, drops. 

“That’s not funny.” 

Newt doesn’t say anything. 

Thomas reaches over and shoves him. “That isn’t funny, Newt,” he says, “You’re _ not _ going to Europa.” 

“Alright, alright,” Newt breathes, finally looking at him. “I’m not going to Europa, Tommy. I promise.”

Thomas nods and presses his cheek against the sand, closing his eyes. It is still warm despite it being night. After a minute he feels a touch against his shoulder, and hears Newt’s voice ask, “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” 

Thomas opens his eyes. Newt has rolled towards him, as well. Thomas notices one of the buttons on his shirt has come loose and without thinking reaches over to fix it. “I don’t know,” he says. “Haven’t decided yet. But I’m thinking …” 

“Yeah?” Newt prompts. 

Thomas fixes the button and pulls back. “Maybe the donation centre.”

Newt’s eyebrows raise. “Wow,” he says, sounding impressed 

Thomas shrugs. “Or, I don’t know. Maybe run the train for the ice tours.” 

“We can have lunch together at the seven-eleven,” Newt says. “Wednesdays at the museum. You can help me chase out the kids who keep touching things with Do Not Touch signs in front of them.”

“Deal,” Thomas says, holding his pinkie out. Newt pauses for only a moment before compiling. 

The waves crash against the shore at their feet, pulling grains out from under the heels of their feet and sinking them into the sand. The comfortable, easy silence stretches on for a handful of minutes during which Thomas closes his eyes and shifts in and out of consciousness (his mind is playing him animated movies of a unicorn riding a surfboard on the waves that stretch out before them until it hit a particularly hard one and falls, it’s hoofed feet barely aiding it in staying above water) when Newt’s voice reaches in and wraps itself around Thomas’ consciousness, pulling him back to the surface. 

“The ice tours you said?” 

Thomas opens one eye and allows his head to lull lazily to the side. Newt is bathed in moonlight and glitter that may or may not actually exist in the real world. The tip of his nose shines silver. “What about them?” 

“Have you ever actually been on one?” he asks. 

Thomas shrugs. “Don’t think so. No. I – maybe – nah. No,” he says, “I haven’t.” 

“So,” Newt starts, his words slow and bending and shifting into shape in the air in front of his nose. Thomas blinks and wonders what else was in those joints. “You haven’t seen it then?”

“Seen it?”

“_It _.” Newt points up, “Him. It. The Great Planet.” 

Thomas mutters, “Jupiter.”

“Jupiter,” Newt returns, equally as breathy. In Thomas’ mind he hears, _ All hail the Great Planet _ bounce around his head like an echo in the voice of his fourth-grade history teacher. 

“I mean. Yeah, I’ve seen it,” Thomas says, “We’ve all seen it. I guess.”

Newt presses, “But have you _ seen it? _” rolling on to his side to face Thomas again. “Actually seen it? Properly?” 

“Have you seen it?” 

Newt nods, “On the flight over from Ganymede.” _ Gah-na-mede. Ga-NEE-mead. _Thomas whispers the word back to himself, his lips barely moving. 

“Really?”

Newt nods again.

“Whoa.” 

“You see it on the ice tour,” Newt explains. “It’s like. Right there.” 

Thomas watches Newt’s hand move in the air, transfixed. “Right there.”

“Yeah.”

“Have _ you _ been on an ice tour?” 

“Once. When we first moved. Liz wanted to.”

“What was it like?”

“The ice or the planet?”

“The planet. The ice. Both.” 

“It was.” Newt pauses. “Heavy.”

“Heavy?”

“Everything looked like it weighed a million pounds. Like if all of time and space were to collapse in on itself, or the Sun sucked everything in orbit into it, the ice would break and the planet would crash into us, and we’d be all dead before we ever got close to the burning hot star.” 

_ The boy from Ganymede flew up to the stars and saw the sun, the moon, the bead – the galaxy galore. _

Newt’s eyes are bright and wild when he says, “We can go now if you want.”

“Go?” Thomas asks, stupidly. 

“On an ice tour,” Newt says. 

“But they don’t begin until six.”

“It’ll take us twenty minutes to walk to the amusement park,” Newt reasons, “and then we’ll just hang around until it begins.” He wiggles closer on the sand and Thomas suddenly forgets how to breathe. “You’ll enjoy it. I promise.” 

“You promise,” he says. 

Newt holds up a pinkie once more and smiles warmly. “I promise.” 

It takes them a whole twenty-three minutes and thirty-two seconds to walk to the amusement park from the beach, mostly because someone (Thomas) keeps getting distracted by shiny-silvery-things in the corner of his eye that should not be there, and someone else (Newt) keeps tripping on his shoes, thrown off by all the extra room he isn’t used to. 

The lights are off when they arrive at the entrance to the amusement park. Even though it does not open it’s doors until 9 AM Thomas can still spot people milling about inside, setting up for the morning, moving at a slow, sleepy pace. The words _ TOMORROWLAND _ hover above the entrance arch, a cartoon sun and moon on either side of the word, and a rocket ship flying over the letters O and W. Thomas holds a very vivid memory in his mind from early childhood, riding up and down on a blue rocket ship while his parents bobbed up and down on their own either side of him. All three of them were smiling and laughing, and the air tasted like cotton candy. 

The entrance to the ice tour port sits opposite the park beside an ice cream parlour beside a tourist vendor beside a coffee shop which specialises in a drink called The Galilean Swirl Latte, named as such because of how the colour of the drink changes to reflect each of the moons as you drink it. A fast-food truck rests parallel to the entrance to the park and sleeps with its roller shut, and Thomas pushes the hungry ache in his stomach down. 

The port does not open its doors for another half hour so Thomas and Newt amuse themselves by balancing on the flat top cylindrical spikes acting as a pathway fence and compete in who can stay balanced the longest (Thomas wins 3-1. Newt complains that his leg throws off his balance but when Thomas asks him why he does not answer). 

Thomas is attempting a handstand when they hear a hiss off to the left. Thomas’ feet return to the ground quickly and he jumps up seeing stars and blinks them out of his vision. The doors to the port are slowly opening, glittering as they go with smoke protruding from the corners and dispersing stardust into the air like a million tiny suns. 

Thomas _ really _ wonders what Newt put in those things. 

Above the gates, a neon sign blinks to life, and a pastel rainbow reads in bold font:

**CALLISTO ICE TOUR**

Thomas feels a warm hand slip into his own and blinks up in shock to find Newt looking at him with purpose, his eyes wild and excited, and filled with a certain kind of clarity that Thomas find ludicrous given his own state of prolonged inebriation. 

Newt says, “Come on,” and Thomas nods and does not mention the stars swimming in the far-left field of his vision. He allows Newt to pull him over to the gate and tries not to slip when ascending the steps. 

They trip the various motion sensor pads in the floor leading the to the docks and leave a trail of holographic men and women cheerily spouting facts about the moon and the ice in their wake. When they finally arrive at the end of the hall where the velvet rope winds in a zig-zag Thomas makes the first apophony of: “Newt, I don’t have any money on me.” 

And the second coming: “And neither do you. We spent it all on chocolate bars.”

“You spent it all on chocolate bars,” is Newt’s rebuttal, “_and _dropped your keys and wallet in my sister’s van.” 

Thomas frowns, “They were in _ your _ pocket.” 

Newt shrugs. “Potato potahto.” 

“Do you have money on you?”

“Why would I have money on me, Tommy? We were at a bloody desert party.”

“Well, then how are we getting in?” 

Newt pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have legs, don’t you? We’ll jump over the barrier.” 

Logic overshadowed by the fact that through all this Newt is still, for some reason, holding Thomas’ hand when there is no reason to, Thomas agrees to jump the barrier. 

The port is similar but different to what he’d imagined; stretches of silver tiles that glitter in multi-chrome brilliance, and walls that are much similar. One side of the hall is lined with windows that don’t really reveal anything at all besides solid darkness, leaving Thomas to wonder what the point of them is, or is they appear different during the day. Photos in simple gold frames detail the beginnings of the sector from the construction of the Artemis base to a happy photo of all the workers gathered with their arms around one another and beaming at the camera. One of the larger photos in the line-up is one of Ms. Paige and a man Thomas does not recognise in front of the statue in Salvation Square. She is smiling as well as her companion, however the rest of his face is serious and filled with straight-backed importance, shoulders taut and stiff. 

What gets Thomas most about the photo is the look in his eyes; cold and grey, like he is looking into the barrel of the camera but seeing none of it. Ava is holding large scissors, and he a bright red ribbon, outstretched for her to cut. The description reads _Dr_ _Ava Paige and Dr D. Janson at the grand opening of Sector C, 114 AE_. 

The further they progress down the pathway the more pictures appear; Ava Paige and her friend at the first Gala, and Ava and Janson shaking hands with the first Mayor as they open the Donation Centre and WCKD2 headquarters. Ava greeting the first child successfully born from an incubation pod, the man and woman who he has been honourably bestowed as their son cradling him in their hands and Ava has her hand on his cheek, looking down at him with particularly teary eyes. 

Next is a photo of Ava with Janson and the mayor again as they open up with first residential village. Them when the museum is built, standing before that great big oil painting of the Earth. Them at the Salvation Monument, them at the first meteor shower on the mountain. 

Then begin the pictures of them on the other moons: in front of the town hall on Ganymede, the green pastures and miles of farmland on Io, and lastly the mining rig on Europa. 

There are a fair few images of Ava solo; some where she is sitting in her home, appearing much older now, staring out the window with a book in her lap. Another of her in her study, head bent over the desk and deep in work. All of these photos span over 200 years at the least, and Thomas notices Dr Janson appears in all of them in one way or another, the only difference is he is aging while Ava remains mostly the same. 

It is startling to see the process of her cryostasis periods painted so clearly. It has always been a little troublesome for Thomas to imagine the woman that did not age for hundreds of years, but now he sees it – the slow progression of Dr Ava Paige through time, the way she disappears in photos only to turn up in them again five to ten years later. 

Thomas stops at one of the newest photos. It shows Ava on the beach holding a parasol in her small, wrinkled hand, and staring out at the waves as if she is seeing them in a dream. The picture draws him in. He stands there for a long moment just staring, not understanding what it is about it that makes his throat swell up and his ribcage feel too big in his chest. 

He does not realise nor understand why tears are forming in his eyes until Newt squeezes his hand, drawing Thomas’ attention finally away from the photo and back into the present. Newt’s eyebrows are raised questionably. Thomas shakes his head and squeezes Newt’s hand back, and gently tugs him down the rest of the way to the train. 

The barrier is guardless and quiet. The scanner where they would normally place their purchased tickets to enter blinks a cool green, waiting. Newt finally releases Thomas’ hand, leaving the cool air to take its place. Thomas makes a fist in its absence and watches as Newt takes hold of each side of the gate and expertly swings himself up and over. Thomas mimics the act a moment later. 

The tour train runs of a schedule maned by a computerised driver. They last a total of twenty minutes each, and the very first one of the day begins strictly when the numbers change to 06:00. Being 5:57 AM Thomas thinks they have made record time. 

The train doors shut behind them with a heavy hiss, and Thomas and Newt take their seats as an overly polite and cheery voice runs through the safety instructions with them. They shuffle into one of the two-seaters in the middle of the cabin, and Thomas’ chest and palms tingle with nervous excitement when the train gives a jerk and begins to move out of the tunnel. It dawns on him then that he has never been outside the walls of the sector before, and this will be the very first time he has seen the outside for what it really looks like without the veil or partial veil of the sector’s atmospherical dome in the way. 

Thomas’ leg shakes with excitement and anxiety when the tunnel’s end draws closer and closer, the light at the end growing brighter as they approach. Newt is pressed against his side like a warm anchor, and Thomas pushes his thigh more firmly against his when the light finally engulfs them in a blast almost too bright, and Thomas has to shut his eyes against it. 

His eyes open to the sound of the voice over calmly announcing the beginning of the tour, _ Once Upon A Dream _ playing in a dreamy piano melody over the speakers, and the all-encompassing vastness of space. 

The ice spikes are far taller and wider than Thomas imagined they would be, and when one passes right by their window Thomas jumps and leans into Newt, who catches him with a quiet laugh. They stand as tall as the skyscrapers on Ganymede and stretch on for miles and miles like a colossal, never-ending maze of blue and silver. 

Thomas is so overwhelmed by the spikes that he amazingly does not notice Jupiter until a break in the ice occurs and he sees it, full and unobscured. 

A massive giant that takes his breath away instantly and leaves him feeling dizzy. 

Thomas is almost overcome with desire to crawl under the seats or jump and hide behind Newt at the sight of it – of the browns and reds and oranges and blues striped in perfect lines and swirls all around the gigantic sphere. The great red storm rages without mercy. Thomas can almost hear the sound of it, the roar of thunder and wind and other sounds that bend nature and science to their whim, sounds that no human could possibly comprehend. 

_ Newt was right _, Thomas thinks. It does look like it could crush you; like it could suck them up right now in this train and pull them into the great storm, and that would be the end of it. Thomas falls back against Newt and stays there. 

Thomas does not hear the voice over or the music in the background, too overwhelmed with it all to pay any attention. They circle around one of the largest ice spikes on Callisto and Thomas turns back to Newt then, no words on his tongue but eyes screaming _ Wow! _ only to find Newt staring right at him, his features relaxed and mouth curled into an easy smile. The brilliant shine of the spike reflects in Newt’s eyes and colours the high point of his face a soft blue. Thomas imagines the colours are doing the same with himself, and there is a brief moment when he catches his face in the reflection in the glass and does not recognise himself – his features too open and eyes too wide. It looks like a younger version of himself is staring back rather than the one who is actually sitting in this train.

Newt sits with his arm resting on the back of the seat, fingers occasionally twitting to brush against the side of Thomas’ neck. 

Too soon the ride is over, the song is ending, and the voiceover is finishing her spiel. Thomas says one last goodbye to the ice and to Jupiter as they emerge into the dark tunnel once again, and crawl to a slow stop at the station. They do not move as the voiceover tells them to _ Please make sure you have all of your belongings with you before you make your exit from the train, _Thomas’ mind reeling and Newt looking far too comfortable in his seat to move. Thomas feels light-headed, exhilarated as if he has just gotten off a rollercoaster instead of a tour train that moves 40 mph. 

“Wow,” he breathes, feet kicking out and hitting the seat in front of them. 

“Yeah,” Newt hums contently. He is quite close. Thomas can smell the scent of his own fabric softener on Newt, and the knowledge of it simmers nicely under his skin. “Was it everything you ever dreamed it would be?” 

“I think so,” Thomas says, looking at Newt. “It was … it was. Yeah, it was _ huge_.”

Newt laughs, and it shakes Thomas’ arm. “Yes, Tommy, that’s why they call it The Great Planet.” 

“But it was. It was huge, Newt!” Thomas sighs, “Has it always been that big? Have I just gone this long without seeing it – _ really _ seeing it?” 

Newt nods delicately. “It has.” 

Thomas leans further into the seat until Newt’s forearm is pressed against his shoulder. It’s funny, he thinks suddenly, how you can live somewhere your whole life and never see some of it. He must say this out loud, as then Newt shrugs and says, “The ice tours are more of a touristy thing, anyway.” 

Thomas looks out the window, half expecting the spikes to still be there, and is given only a blank metal wall. He’d like to see it again one day, he thinks. Soon. 

“Maybe we can go again?” Thomas mumbles, mostly to himself.

He can hear Newt’s eyebrows raise rather than see them when he asks, “Now?” and there is something in his tone that leads Thomas to believe that if the answer was _ Now _ he’d absolutely do it again, just for him. 

Thomas entertains the short fantasy of leaning forward and whispering the word against Newt’s lips. 

He does not get a chance to, as a very bright light assaults him right in the eyeballs and a very old, very angry man barks at the from the train cabin’s open doors. 

“Hey!” he shouts, “What are you kids doing in here and where are your tickets?!” 

“_Shit_,” Thomas and Newt curse in unison and bolt up from the seat toward the opposite end of the carriage, jabbing the button to open the door into the next one and running out through the doors of the train as fast as their legs can carry them, the guard shouting them as they go. 

“Shit!” Thomas repeats with feeling once they are out of the station and gasping for breath despite the bursts of laughter that bubble out of their chests. The streets have begun to fill with early risers milling about for breakfast or commuting to work, and Thomas and Newt are given odd glares by many of them. Newt laughs into the back of his wrist and throws his arm around Thomas’ shoulders, pulling him down the street. 

The sun has risen when they make their sleepy way home on the bus out of Salvation. Thomas nods off against the window for a few glorious minutes before he is shaken awake by Newt advising him that they have reached their stop. They shuffle home and the world finally looks clearer to Thomas; the effects of the drug worn off at long last. He does not ask Newt for their contents, not really thinking it matters anymore. 

They eventually wander to the front of Thomas’ house, which is where Newt says his goodbye with a two-fingered wave and a salute to boot. Thomas waits until he is out of sight before attempting to enter his house. 

‘Attempting’ being the keyword, as up until this moment Thomas has managed to forget that he has no actual way of unlocking any of the doors, and opts for the back entrance à la jumping the gate and climbing the stone wall and barely managing not to land on his head on the hard stone below, and cracking it open. 

A fern and his mothers bright and thriving agave plants break his fall instead. 

Thomas ends the adventure by collapsing on the hammock tied to two palm trees beside the swimming pool with a deep sigh. Two things make the should be comfortable resting place uncomfortable: one is the sphere in his left pocket and the other is the small vial that up until this very moment he had forgotten all about. Thomas reaches in and pulls out the medicine Mary had given him that day of the incident, the yellow liquid now only filling the vial halfway. 

Thomas frowns and, curiously, turns it around the squint at the label. The font is tiny and hard to read, but eventually Thomas makes out the warning statement: 

** _Do Not Mix With Alcohol Or Drugs. May Cause Side Effects Including Nausea, Dizziness, Vomiting, Sweating, Dehydration and HALLUCINATIONS. _ **

Ah. Well. That answers that question. No need to interrogate Newt about the suspiciously potent weed after all. 

Thomas lets out a breath and drops his head back down on to the pillow. It slides to the left and rests a little awkwardly under his neck but to Thomas it is the most comfortable thing in the world. He isn’t sure how long he sleeps out in the yard for, but it couldn’t have been very long. His phone vibrates against his thigh and rudely wakes him. Thomas paws at it until it slips from his pocket and glares at the screen to make out a text from Sonya that reads, in all caps, _ WHERE ARE YOU? OUR SHIFT STARTS IN TWELVE MINUTES AND YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE HELPING ME OPEN!!! _

Thomas groans and drops his phone on the grass below. Of course. Of _ course _he’d forgotten he has work this morning. 

Thomas presses his fists to his eyes until he sees stars against the black and red and groans some more, passionately, and wallows in self-deprecation for a cute minute. Eventually he rolls out of the hammock and texts Sonya, _ Sorry slept in. Pls cover for me, I’ll be there soon. _

She sends him a selfie of her flipping him off, and Thomas notices the dark circles and lack of usual makeup and feels a pang of guilt. 

He bucks up and climbs the trumpet vines that crawl up the wall of his house to the balcony leading to his bedroom, thankful in himself for never locking the doors, and slips inside his bedroom. The cats are lounging on his bed like they’ve been there all night and look up at the sight of him. They look bored, if anything, and a little hungry. Thomas makes a mental note to give them a little extra food this morning as a treat and apology. Thomas dresses into his uniform as fast as possible and shoves his skates into his backpack in the same breath. Newt’s jacket he leaves draped over the back of his desk chair, and his clothes are folded neatly on the desk to return to him later. 

He makes it to the door when the dizzy spell hits and Thomas is forced to catch himself against the frame. Behind him, Barnacle meows worryingly. It is then that he remembers he hasn’t slept decently in over twenty-four hours, the medicine doing as Aris had promised and keeping him awake at night. Thomas sighs against the wall and weighs the options. 

He could call in sick and risk being fired and/or Sonya hating him forever (that girl can hold a grudge like it’s a competition). He could show up and risk passing out mid-shift. Or, alternatively, he could show up, set an alarm on his phone, and pass out in the back room for the whole of his lunch break. Another option is shovelling as much protein bars in his mouth as he can and chew them on the drive over to the ice cream shop.

Or …

Thomas eyes the third drawer of his desk.

_ Or _.

Hating himself a little, he gets up and opens the draw, lifting a handful of books to find the small, ruby and peridot encrusted jewellery box. The pills sit inside as he’d left them, untouched for months. Thomas has been meaning to get rid of the box, but truth be told he’d forgotten he still had them until now. 

Just one, he reasons with himself. One to get him through today and then he can sleep for four of them straight. 

Scrunching his eyes tight, Thomas whispers, “Fuck it,” and swallows a small red pill dry. It hits almost instantly, the effects smoothing out his senses and sharpening his eyes sight, clearing his sinuses and giving him all the energy that he had been missing. 

Thomas takes a long, deep breath, and begins his day. 

– 

Sonya throws Thomas his wallet the moment he walks through the door of the roller diner, which hits him smack in the cheek. The keys, mercifully, come after he has recovered some dexterity after the initial shock.

“You left those in the beetle,” she tells him, the name referring to her van both affectionately and ironically, given its size, “but I figure you knew that given you look and smell like you slept in a fucking bush.” 

Her tone is gruff and it makes Thomas flinch. 

“Where were you?” Sonya asks, tone probing. Thomas rolls over to the counter to slip his apron around his neck, and tie it crooked behind his back. When he doesn’t answer she continues, “Seriously, Thomas, you look like shit. You weren’t that out of it when I left you guys last night, and – oh. Right.” Her face turns bashful, colour tinting her cheeks a rosy pink, “Sorry about that. You were taking so long and Harriet was – yeah. Sorry.” 

Thomas shakes his head and tries to banish from his mind the implication of what Harriet was. He turns to Sonya with the biggest plastic smile he can muster, and says, “It’s okay, Son, don’t sweat it.” 

Sonya digs her hands into the pockets of her overalls and stretches her foot into a point, the rollers spinning at her heel. Thomas begins to organise the spoons into colour and size order just for something to do, and an excuse not to look at Sonya. 

“Newt didn’t come home until this morning, either. What did you guys do all night?” 

Thomas places the last medium-sized purple straw into the jar with its friends and shrugs casually. 

“We slept in a bush.” 

Sonya makes a face, too similar to the one Newt makes when he is annoyed – eyes narrowing, nose scrunching. Thomas has to look away. 

They both serve one customer at the same time. The shop is dead and the kid only wanted chocolate with rainbow sprinkles, which Thomas could have very well handled himself, but Sonya is looking at him as if she is worried that he will fall and crack his head on the tile the moment she takes him out of her sight. At one point she watches him roll across the floor of the shop with her palms wide as if she is queuing up to catch him. Thomas eventually does a pirouette in the middle of the floor (which earns him a loud cheer from one customer and an annoyed look from another) that doesn’t end in total catastrophe, which eventually calms her down. 

When he is ducking out the back door for his lunch break Sonya hooks a finger into the belt loop at his hips and says, “Seriously. Next time just say you’re sick. I’ll cover for you.” 

Thomas leans over to peck the top of her head, and laughs when she makes a grossed-out face. 

Outside Thomas’ stomach rumbles displeasingly, but the mere thought of food makes him want to be sick. He entertains the idea, for a moment, of calling Mary and telling her what is happening, but that would involve coming clean about a lot of things, so he pushes the thought to the side and pulls a faintly crushed cigarette out of his pocket, and decides this will do. When the cigarette has burnt halfway to the butt Thomas notices Lawrence across the street, knelt down on his knees and smelling a bush of roses. He looks up to see Thomas watching and waves. Thomas waves back with a small smile despite him not being able to see it. 

Thomas takes his second dose of medicine for the day on an empty stomach and gets through the remainder of his shift with dubious ease. 

If he had to guess he’d say the hallucinations returned sometime after the second dose but really came to town after the third. His lungs are feeling better, at least, which is the biggest plus that Thomas can think of as he stands naked in front of the full-body mirror in his bedroom and tests his lungs. There is the same tug that there always is but it feels lesser now like something has been taken out or a part has been replaced. 

Thomas closes his eyes and presses his fingers firmer against his rib cage until he can’t anymore, and breathes as lights explode into a spectrum of colours and shapes that dance beneath his eyelids. He opens them and they do not go away. 

When his shift finished Thomas rushed home as fast as possible without breaking the speed limit and/or totalling the mustang through the window of a passing house, and promptly fell asleep on the couch with one leg over the armrest and one hanging awkwardly off the side. The blissful two hours ended too quick, and Thomas woke to his alarm going off, telling him it is time to start getting ready for Sonya’s gig, Barnacle sleeping in a ball on his chest. 

The fish swim through the twin holes of the eight on his wall before it changes to a nine. Thomas breathes. 

The show begins in eleven minutes, and Thomas is meant to be dressed and on his way to the venue by now. 

He breathes again, turns away from the mirror, and begins to dress. 

He slips on black jeans that feel tighter than usual and thus prove more difficult to pull up over his ankles and thighs, jumping with the effort, and spends a good minute marvelling at the rip in one of the knees, wondering where it came from before remembering it was there when he purchased them. He buttons up his red shirt wrong three times and gets it right on the fourth, leaving the first three of them alone lest he has to repeat the process a sixth time. His shoes don’t match the rest of his clothes but he pulled out a pair first try, so Thomas dubs this a cataclysmic success and vows not to push his luck. 

Stars dance in his vision. 

Thomas leaves the cats food, kisses Barnacle between her fuzzy black ears and scratches Calypso between hers, and locks the front door behind him.

The venue is alight with activity when he arrives. A large sign reading _ The Sleepy Stag _ flashes in bright neon hues around the head of a deer shaped out of fluorescent lights. The faint thrum of music reaches Thomas’ ears; a heady bass reverberates through the floor of his car and twists over his entire body after he turns the engine off. The high bell of his text tone sounds in the passenger’s seat beside him but Thomas ignores it, pressing his thumbs to the bridge of his nose in a pinch and leaning his head back against the smooth leather of his seat. 

There are people from school and work milling about outside the bar but no one that Thomas knows personally. Occasionally they will pass glances over to the car, either appreciative of the smooth lines and squeaky-clean surface (a couple of years ago his dad went to get it wrapped with some magic miracle of science and now not a single speck of dust or scratch can lay upon the body of the car. Which is good for Thomas) or wary of the strange guy sitting in his car out the front of a bar not really doing anything but looking two steps from death, he can guess. 

Thomas pulls the sun visor mirror down and instantly winces. Weary, red-rimmed eyes and static pupils. His spin is blotchy and flushed as if he is coming down with a fever. Lights swim around in his vision but he bats them away with a lazy hand. Thomas takes a deep breath and wills himself out of the car. 

The inside of the bar looks about as you’d imagine it to from the outside facade: wood tones and neon signs and people absolutely _ everywhere _. Thomas feels instantly closed in and nauseous, worried for a moment that he won’t be able to find his friends all night, but the anxiety is premature as the next second he hears a high, bell-like call of his name and then Sonya is rushing towards him, all long platinum curls and jewellery that catches the light and shines too-bright in his eyes. She throws her arms around his neck and Thomas stumbles to keep his footing.

“You came!” she cries into his ear, and Thomas smothers down the flinch. “I wasn’t sure. You didn’t look so good when you left Mel’s this afternoon.”

Thomas shrugs and slaps on a smile. “Yeah, I know. But I’m fine now. Must’ve been a weird bug, or something. Besides,” Thomas holds her out at arm’s length, “I couldn’t miss this. Look at you!” 

Sonya laughs and rolls her eyes. She really does look amazing – hair stylishly messy, and orange lipstick that glimmers metallic in the light, with a loose, white dress that falls just above her knees, and long black boots. She looks like a rockstar ready to take the stage in front of thousands of her adoring fans. Sonya has been talking about this gig for weeks, and now Thomas can see the electric energy in her eyes, all raw excitement, and determination. His mind briefly flashes back to when he was thirteen and watching a smaller Sonya perform for him, Newt, Minho, and Teresa, singing into a hairbrush and dancing on top of the coffee table. He couldn’t be prouder. 

“Thanks,” she says, and then gives him a once over. “Nice jacket.”

Thomas tries very hard not to blush. Someone calls her name near the stage and Sonya rushes over to them with a quick goodbye. 

“Hey,” Thomas hears and turns to spot Newt walking up to him from beneath a throng of people, teeth pearly-white under the lights of the bar.

“Hi,” Thomas greets back, and tries very hard to ignore the stardust dancing around Newt’s head like a group of tiny cherubs. 

Newt says, “I think you have something of mine there?”

Thomas plays innocent, furrowing his brows and blinking in confusion, “Like what?”

Newt pinches the collar of his leather jacket, the one that Thomas is wearing, between two fingers and tugs. Thomas gasps _ Oh! _ and feigns, “You mean this? Because this one’s mine.”

Newt raises an eyebrow, a surprised laugh tittering past his lips, “Is it, now?”

“Yuh-huh.”

“You licked it so it’s yours?”

“Exactly,” Thomas nods. 

Newt gives another short tug. “Alright, then. That just means you can’t have your’s back, either,” he says, and the crowd clears and Thomas notices his jacket, the one he’d worn to the party the night before, draped over the side of the booth where everyone is seated. It lies beside Minho, who has his head down and is staring into his drink intently like he is trying to find the meaning of life at the bottom of the glass. 

Thomas shrugs and looks away, “Whatever. I’ve traded up. This one’s more durable.” 

Newt nods agreeably, and says, “Yeah, it is. It looks good on you, too.”

The world teeters slightly left. “Thanks.” 

Thomas opts to sit down, feeling dizzy. He thinks to himself, _ I need water_, and orders a beer instead. Harriet, when he sits down, vibrates beside him with second-hand nervous energy as she taps her fingernails against the table and sips at her drink in frequent bursts. Ben, Rachel, and Aris seem to be playing some kind of drinking game, Teresa is locked in a conversation with Brenda that requires them to lean their heads in close and Minho pensively eyes Thomas where he has slid into the booth. There is an empty space beside him where he assumes Gally is sitting. 

“Hi?” Thomas says, uncertain. 

“Hi.” Minho gestures with his chin. “Nice jacket,” he says, and makes sure everyone else is happily preoccupied – all of them caught in the middle one or two conversations and Newt digging around irritably in his pocket – and adds, in as low a whisper as the setting will allow him, “You look like shit. When was the last time you slept?” 

“Today,” Thomas answers. Minho does not believe him, and Thomas feels himself become suddenly, irrationally, angry, raising his voice louder than he should, “Look, can you just – It’s fine, okay? Get off my dick.” 

Across the table, Ben whistles, and Brenda says, “Whoa, didn’t know it was going to be that kind of night.” 

“What’s got your panties in a bunch?” Rachel asks, eyebrow cocked, head tilted and Thomas suddenly wants to shove gum in her long, unbrushed hair again. 

Newt rights himself and glances at Thomas questionably. He blinks and star dust floats off the tips of his eyelashes. Thomas is saved from any kind of admission or questions by Gally who arrives back at the table with a platter of drinks balanced precariously on one hand like a waiter, and everyone immediately forgets about any qualms at the sight of the alcohol. 

All except Minho, but Thomas should never be so lucky. His friend does not make another comment but continues to glance sideways at Thomas occasionally.

The band is doing a sound and mic check on stage when Thomas is half through his beer and Newt is mid-sip of his when someone to their left calls out Newt’s name and it causes him to choke on the liquid and spit half of it out over the top of the bottle head. 

His eyes are wide in shock. Everyone stares. The stranger approaches, dark hair, dark clothes and bright, gleeful grin growing wider. 

The stranger repeats again, “Newt? Hey, it is you!” 

“Hi,” Newt coughs and sets the bottle down and – most surprising of all, to Thomas – stumbles out of the booth as fast as he can, standing to greet the man. They stand close as they exchange greetings and the stranger puts his hand on Newt’s forearm and Newt does not shrug it away or move back, his smile only growing wider and Thomas’ stomach curdles, an ugly feeling crawling up his chest and tapping at the inside of his throat like a spider. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gally turn to Minho and mouth, _ Who the fuck is that? _Thomas shares the sentiment, as does, apparently, the rest of their table. 

Suddenly Harriet gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh shit.”

“_What?” _Brenda presses.

Harriet says, “I think that’s Quantum Physics guy,” and blanches when Thomas’ eyes snap up to her in a second. Her own widen and her palms raise off the table. “Sonya told me about him,” she says, tone almost apologetic.

Rachel grabs Harriet’s wrist and Aris taps the table with a coin to gain her attention. “Wait, _ who _ is that?” 

“Oh, Jupiter, it _ is _ him!” 

“Wait, how do you know?”

Teresa is looking at Thomas. Thomas picks at the bottle’s label with his thumbnail. 

“I’m sorry, who the fuck is this guy? Can someone fill me in, please?”

“I’ll be real with you,” Ben says, eyeing up the stranger critically, “He looks a lot … not as I expected.” 

“What did you expect?” Thomas pipes in, hating the bite in his voice, hating the tingle in the tips of his fingers like he wants to punch someone, hating the restlessness in his knees that want to push himself up from the table and pull Newt away from that guy. Ben’s eyes dart over to Thomas for a millisecond, and he says nothing. 

Truth be told he isn’t how Thomas imagined him to be, either. Tall, dark and handsome where Thomas had guiltily pictured someone small and skinny and, well, someone who Thomas could probably take. In reality this man is far from that – he is also older than Thomas has expected. Post-school, like Newt, but more mature, possibly in the workforce for a couple years now. Judging by Newt’s _ Feel you up under the table while I whisper sweet rocket science fuelled nothings in your ear _initial description of him, Thomas can hazard a wild, crazy guess that he works at the engineering base of WCKD2 Headquarters. 

Both are areas that Newt has expressed interest in the past, on the brief, rare occasions where he does express interest in anything to do with life after education. Given the requirement of seniors to visit at least a handful of facilities during their last year to encourage decisions and putting in applications, it wouldn’t be totally impossible to guess that Newt and this guy met during one of these field trips. 

Or maybe he visits the museum sometimes. Maybe he caught a glimpse of Newt in his black and white uniform, shirt buttoned all the way up and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, with that half-awkward smile he gets on his face whenever he is in tour mode, gesturing to sculptures and art with one wave of the hand and his heart had stuttered in his chest, as Thomas’ does, and he couldn’t resist walking up to him after his shift had ended and introduced himself. 

Maybe he’d come on a little too strong and realised it, sent Newt a string of apology texts that wore him down and, _ Wow, what a coincidence to run into each other here? Oh, I didn’t know your sister was playing tonight! That’s so rad, I know she’ll be amazing already. _And Newt is laughing and nodding along, and allowing himself to be charmed all over again, putting their first date in the past and thinking, hey maybe – 

Thomas drowns the rest of his drink in one gulp, announces he is going to get another, and slides out of the booth without another word. 

The world spins. Thomas orders another drink and takes his time walking back to the table. Newt is back seated when he returns and Sonya is on stage, lit up and ready to roll. Thomas squeezes past Gally and wiggles in between him and Teresa. 

The lights dim, and the band begins to play.

Teresa squeezes his knee under the table. Thomas looks at her, and wishes he hadn’t. 

Sonya pushes her hair off her shoulder, closes her eyes and tilts her head elegantly to the side, and begins to sing. 

_ She’s beautiful_, Thomas thinks. 

Teresa is also beautiful. She smiles encouragingly at him, and Thomas thinks she is absolutely stunning. 

Newt watches his baby sister perform leaning slightly forward in his seat, eyes full of pride and awe, fingers drumming out the beat in the table and Thomas thinks of the grand white piano in his house that he doesn’t know how to play. 

Newt is beautiful. He is so beautiful. How could Thomas ever think he’d feel the same way? 

Thomas can’t see Mr. Science Man Dream Boat but he probably is not far, thinking just the same but with more confidence in the knowledge that Newt would give him the time of day.

Sonya’s low, melodic tones drift around the bar dreamily. It’s haunting, almost, and everyone is absolutely enraptured with her. He imagines they’re all falling in love with her, every single person in this room, as Thomas feels he could fall in love with her at this moment. 

Thomas grips the neck of his beer bottle to steady himself. Sonya dips into the bridge. 

He thinks loved Teresa, before. He would lie awake at night and imagine them growing older, escaping out of school and getting marries, move into one of those new neighbourhoods and raise a family who they took out for ice cream every Friday night at the cart by the beach. 

It was idealistic, yes, and maybe he had been too young to know if he truly wanted it, but it had been easy, and safe. Thomas always thought he’d be the type of person to marry his best friend, and Teresa fit that scenario exactly. 

Except, eventually, that image of Teresa in his perfect, idealistic future faded, only to come back with someone else in her place. 

Someone who sits opposite him and shakes his head in amazement at Thomas, cheeks flushed and eyes crinkling in the corners as they do when he is really, truly happy, and Thomas thinks, _ I love him_. 

The song ends. The crowd cheers. Sonya’s bubbly voice thanks the crowd and Newt cheers louder than them all, and Thomas thinks,_ I really love him. Oh, help help help. _

Sonya begins another song and Thomas finishes his drink. Harriet scoots up behind Newt and wraps her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin beside his ear. She says something and Newt beams and nods. Sonya’s voice floats emerald green in the air, the drum beats a deep gold and the strum of the guitar a vibrant sapphire. On the stage her body sways to the beat, reminding Thomas of a dryad from the old tales, dancing in a meadow of flowers and sunbeams. 

That song ends too and their table is the loudest in the room as they all cheer. It pierces Thomas’ skull. He grits his teeth and steals a bit of Minho’s drink when he isn’t looking. 

Teresa’s hand is warm on his knee and suddenly he decides he feels too hot, too closed in and trapped amongst the small space that their group has squeezed themselves into. 

_ Thomas? _ Someone calls, probably Teresa. He doesn’t answer and attempts to stand but Minho is in the way. _ You don’t look so good. _

_ Fine, _ Thomas thinks, but does not imagine it makes it very far out his mouth, _ Just need some air. I’m okay, okay, okay … _

The world spins. Thomas thinks back to when he was a child at the carnival with his parents and riding the carousel, dizzy from the motion but trusting his dad’s strong arms to catch him. No one stands behind him now. 

“Fine,” Thomas mutters and climbs over Minho’s lap. 

Someone calls his name again and Thomas catches a flash of gold in the corner of his eye and stiffly ignores it, marching toward the bar. 

_ “Where did we go?” _ Sonya sings, _ “I lost you in the smoke.” _

The bar tilts and Thomas reaches out to catch it before it can fall. The bartender eyes him warily, his short eyelashes batting orange sparks. 

“_And I’ve tried patience, but we’ve just overgrown …” _

“Can I …” he begins, runs out of breath too quick, and tries again a moment later, “Can I order uh. Something?” 

“I think you better sit down first, kid,” the man says, gesturing to the empty stool at Thomas’ hip with the empty glass he is in the process of drying. Thomas, after some trial an error, manages to climb up on the stool, resting his elbows on the table and pressing his fingers into his temples, out of breath. 

“You sure you’re okay, kid?” The bartender asks him again, and Thomas nods, head still in his hands. 

“I have to watch my friend perform,” he says. 

“Oh yeah?” he says, and Thomas glances up long enough to notice a rustled, black button-down and sandy blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail held together by a piece of twine. The explicit dishevelment makes Thomas smile. “You know her?”

Thomas leans his chin in his hands and nods. The bartender's name shines pearly white on the tag on his shirt, and Thomas makes out a V and an N when he blinks. “Yep,” he drawls. 

The man nods at the stage appreciatively and then turns back and picks a new glass from the line up, and begins to dry that. He says to Thomas, “She’s pretty good.” 

“She’s amazing.”

The bartender nods again, and beside Thomas, a new voice joins the party, one that he instantly does not like. 

“That your girl?” 

Thomas pivots in his slouch to face the guy who spoke, who jabs his thumb over his shoulder toward Sonya on stage. She is in the middle of her third song, now (or is it fourth?) and Thomas is ashamed to admit he doesn’t remember when she’d stopped the second. The guy smiles, and the only features Thomas’ eyes are able to focus on is the wide, grinning teeth. 

“No,” Thomas answers, eventually, wrinkling his nose. 

“No? You mind if I take her for a whirl, then?” 

Thomas frowns deeper. “She’s sixteen.” 

“Yeah?” The guy raises an eyebrow. His grin broadens, and the lights catch on a gold molar and shine right in Thomas’ eye. “And how old are you, sweetheart?”

Thomas flips him off, and he laughs and, thankfully, grows bored of messing with a drunk kid at the bar and runs off to join his equally as rumbustious friends. Thomas watches them from where they occupy a booth in corner and concludes that they all look like the man Newt had been speaking to, Mr. Quantum Physics, and black leather and rugged faces and loud, boisterous laughs that make the white-hot spikes shoot in the back of Thomas’ eyeballs. He thinks, _ Is this what Newt likes? Is this his type? _They have the black leather down, sure, but so does Thomas at the moment so that doesn’t really prove anything. Each of them also looks like they ride motorcycles through the desert or empty streets of Salvation in their spare time, but he has no source for this information.

As long as he’s known Newt he’s never known him to really _ have _ a type. Newt has dated a spectrum of people over the past handful of years, each one vastly different from the other. The only thing that is different now is none of them have ever bothered Thomas as much as Quantum Physics (not to say that none of Newt’s previous boyfriends’ existences bothered Thomas. They did. He just hadn’t paid it any attention before). 

But this one is different. He’s older – not by a lot but enough so that the extra years make Thomas feel inferior like he is simply a child compared to him and could never measure up. He is also handsome in that rugged, intentional way that only adults who grow half-decent beards could pull off, and he walks with confidence oozing off of him like one of Thomas’ mother’s essential oil diffusers. 

He is – 

Standing right in front of Thomas. 

“Hi,” he begins, voice lagging behind him like a cautious dog, vaguely unsure. 

Thomas blinks up at him and frowns. “Hello?”

“Are you,” he begins, and Thomas internally – pre-emptively – groans, “okay? It’s just you don’t look too good and I, well, I recognise you from back at the table? One of Isaac’s friends, right?”

His voice curls around Newt’s name in a way that makes Thomas irrationally mad. _ Isaac _. Like he has the privilege to use it. 

“Fine,” Thomas spits, and pushes himself off the stool, almost dislodging himself in the process. Quantum Physics reaches out and grabs Thomas by the shoulders, righting him. The gesture is polite and anticipated, a reflex at best, but it does not stop the room spinning and the feel of his hands on his body makes Thomas’ blood boil. 

“Whoa, easy! Are you sure you’re okay?” Quantum Physics asks, before Thomas rights himself and shoves him off, hard. 

“I said I’m _ fine_,” Thomas spits. The bartender eyes them wearily. Out of the corner of Thomas’ eye he notices his posture grow stiff, back arching and chin tilting as if he is gearing up to break up a bar brawl. 

“Okay, shit,” Quantum Physics says, frowning now, “You don’t look fine. How much have you had? What …?” He pauses and, after a moment of hesitation Thomas wishes lasted forever, steps closer. Doing so allows his cologne, some kind of musky citrus that makes his stomach turn, to waft right into Thomas’ face and make him nauseous. “What did you take?”

Thomas clenches his fists. “None of your business,” he says, head pounding. 

“But you did take something,” Quantum Physics replies, stepping closer. Thomas stands his ground and refuses to step back. 

“I said,” Thomas squares his shoulders, “It’s none,” and places a hand firmly in the centre of his chest, “of your,” and pushes, “_business_.”

Thomas pushes _ hard _, so hard that Quantum Physics trips back and lands in a tangle of bar stools not too far away from where a couple members of the loud, obnoxious group from before, Thomas recognises and who, as luck would have it, happen to be Quantum Physics’ friends. 

On the stage, Sonya sings, _ “Out on the beach, in the wreck. Horror, baby blonde, eyes bare.” _

“Hey, kid!” One of them shouts over the music – Thomas feels a stab of guilt. He’s meant to be watching. He is meant to be a good friend and watch – “What the fuck is your deal?” 

_ “Hold out your arms, soak it in, just some teenage kids, before you and I knew that life would never end.” _

_ Shit, _Thomas thinks. 

The bartender appears around the side of the bar, eyebrows furrowed in irritation. He steps around Thomas, right between him and the men, and half-growls, “Is there a problem here?” 

“Yeah,” One of them says, probably Quantum Physics, Thomas can’t really tell, clumped together they all look and sound the same, and the lights of the bar are swirling, and Sonya’s voice eb and flows in the air around Thomas and dulls his senses. “Can’t you see he’s tweaking? How the fuck old are you?”

She sings, _ “Into the hills we go__, _ _ I don't know if I can live much more__. _ _ Didn't know that I could feel this great__. _ _ Life's to waste.” _

The bartender frowns at Thomas. “How old are you?”

_ “In the sunlit dawn__, _ _ if we're lucky maybe God might call__. _ _ Smoky heaven, feeling on my own …” _

Fuck. 

_ “Higher, higher, get. Higher, higher, get ...” _

The man from earlier, the one with the gold tooth, pats his friend on the shoulders obnoxiously and steps around towards Thomas, tilting his head and pouting in a way that makes Thomas clench his fists harder, wanting to punch the stupid plating off his teeth. 

“Is that it, sweetheart?” He asks, “Is it past your bedtime?” He leers closer, “I can tuck you in if you want.” 

Thomas punches him, square in the jaw, because the consequences, as far as he is concerned, can cordially go fuck themselves. 

The calm lasts all of three milliseconds when the storm hits, and it hits with a fist to Thomas’ eye and knocks him straight against the wall. The back of Thomas’ head collides with the edge of a picture frame and sends it falling to the ground with a crash as glass scatters all over the floor. 

Chaos roars all around him. Thomas’ knees give out and he slides down the wall to land in a heap on the floor. Somewhere someone is shouting – or many someones are shouting – at the same time and growing in velocity, and Thomas is faintly aware of a few things; 1. The music halting almost comically, guitar strings cutting off-key and Sonya’s voice growing quiet mid-note. 2. Fists flying at Minho, who has interjected himself into the fray, and a couple at Newt, who is yelling at someone, the name on his tongue one Thomas does not recognise. 3. Someone swinging their fist at Newt, who barely manages to duck out of the way, and 4. Teresa jumping on the back of the man who swung at him, arms around his neck in a chokehold as he swings her around in an attempt to dislodge her off him. Everything else, all at once, sound and noise and colours and lights and voices and shouting and screaming and glass breaking at the bartender calling for security and the _bang bang bang_ pounding inside Thomas’ head, the blood dripping down his cheek from a stinging cut on his temple. 

It doesn’t stop until it does; Newt calls his name and a moment later Thomas feels his hands gripping his shoulders tight and lifting him up off the ground. Thomas groans in pain and Newt says something else but it is all static white noise in the back of his mind. His lips move but Thomas cannot make out the shape of the words. Teresa appears over Newt’s shoulder, then, blue eyes wide with fright. 

Newt’s hands are cupping his jaw and Thomas thinks, _ Too warm _, and tries to bat them away but Newt does not allow it, pinching his nose and tilting his chin up so that Thomas is staring at the pink, blue, purple lights above them.

Then, it becomes too much. 

Thomas’ vision turns black, creeping in slowly in the corners before they overtake him completely. He hears Newt call his name one more time before he passes out. 

Thomas dreams he is on a beach, feet sinking into the sand more and more every time the tide crashes gently into his ankles, seafoam curling between his toes, tiny shells digging into his skin. His eyes are closed but he can see the vast ocean he is standing before, blue and green and shining under the white sun and clean, salty air filled his lungs. The thin cotton of his shift tickles his spine as it flaps in the wind.

He is holding a parasol, like in that photograph of Ms. Paige. 

As he had been dreaming about it, Thomas imagines it would only be appropriate that he wake up in that same exact place. He tries to feel the wind on his skin but there is nothing besides the most subtle of breezes. There is no sound of waves crashing onto the shore, or of foam fizzing between his toes; just of a curtain string softly tapping against a window frame, and the low buzz of a small pedestal fan. 

Thomas opens his eyes to a bedroom ceiling – not his own but Teresa’s, which he recognises by the scatter of glittery stars they stuck up there as kids – and Teresa’s silk bed sheets, sea blue, pulled up to his waist. 

The first thing he notices is that his head feels much clearer than it has for the last couple of days. Gone is the dull pounding in his skull and the drunk waver the world had developed. Now, when he blinks and looks around the room, everything stays exactly where it should. However, when Thomas breathes out deeply through his nose and flops down onto the pillows, the impact lands on the spot at the back of his head which collided with the picture frame last night. Thomas cries out in pain, and the noise startles the other two occupants in the room, those of whom Thomas had not realised existed, who lurch up from their place on the floor. 

Teresa is the first to stir. She squints at Thomas confused, for a moment, brows furrowed at the morning light streaming in through the open balcony doors, before realisation hits and her eyes widen. Mouth opening in a silent gasp Teresa leans over to a still dozing Newt and wacks him hard on the thigh, immediately startling him awake.

Newt and Teresa blink at Thomas, looking explicitly wild and chaotic with bits of Teresa’s white, fluffy rug stuck in their hair. Thomas watches the sleep leave their eyes like smoke evaporating into the air when they grasp that he is awake.

“You’re awake,” Teresa mumbles. She only had one hoop earring left and, Thomas notices with a pang, mascara streaks down her cheeks. 

“Yeah,” Thomas breathes, lifting himself up by his elbows, wincing. 

“Easy,” Newt says, folding his legs under him into a half-lounge. His hair is in his eyes and his shirt is skewered from sleep. He looks like his head hurts him as much as Thomas’ does. “Don’t get up too fast.” 

“How are you feeling?” Teresa asks, sitting on her knees. She pushes frizzy black hair behind her ears. A white fuzzy comes loose and floats by her cheek, eyelashes batting it away. 

“Honestly? Better than I did yesterday,” Thomas admits. His voice is raw, like he needs water, and Newt must also realise this as he rolls to retrieve a half-drunk water bottle off a stool beside them, and hands it over to Thomas. 

“That’s good,” Teresa sighs, relieved, shoulders lowering to a slump. To Newt she whispers, so quiet Thomas almost doesn’t hear it, “Still think we should take him to the doctor.” 

Newt turns his head and whispers something back, this time too low for Thomas to make out. Teresa presses her lips disapprovingly at whatever it was and says nothing in response. 

Thomas tries to sip from the water bottle (that really is his original intention) except the moment the water touches his lips he becomes suddenly re-aware of the fact that he has not had anything to eat or drink in the past twenty-four plus hours that isn’t chocolate, beer, and half a ham and cheese sandwich, and drinks the water in one go, crushing the plastic bottle with his efforts. After he is done he clears his throat and lightly places the crushed bottle beside him on the sheets. Newt and Teresa watch him the way Barnacle would observe a small insect she has never seen before and is curious about the way it functions. 

“Okay,” Teresa begins, shifting her position on the floor. Thomas feels a stab of guilt over them sleeping on the floor because of, he presumes, him. “Why don’t we –”

Newt cuts her off, and asks, “So what did you take?” 

Thomas’ stomach drops out. Teresa slaps Newt again, and hisses, “We agreed we’d wait!”

“We did wait,” Newt replies, making no effort to whisper back. His eyes remain trained on Thomas, unwavering, “And now I want to know. Tommy?”

Thomas’ mouth opens, but he finds he is unable to produce any words out of it. 

Newt continues, after a moment, “Okay. Fine, then.” 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small yellow vial, the one prescribed by Mary, and Thomas’ stomach falls through the floor and down into the moon’s core. “How about this? Have you read the label?” 

“I … Yeah, I have,” Thomas mumbles. 

Teresa frowns and snatches the bottle off Newt, who still is not looking anywhere but Thomas. “Do not mix with other drugs or alcohol … ingredients blah blah … side effects include … can cause … _ Jupiter_, Thomas! Why didn’t you tell us you had this?”

Thomas grips his hair in his hands and tugs. “Listen, I know, okay? I know what I did was beyond stupid, but I don’t need the third degree from you guys, alright?” 

Newt’s frown deepens and his eyes fill with anger, shoulders squaring as if he is readying himself for a fight, when a knock raps against Teresa’s door, and they all start when the voice of her mother calls from the other side of it. 

“Teresa?” She says, “Honey? You’re not still asleep, are you?” 

Teresa turns around to Newt and Thomas so fast her hair whips and hits Newt in the face. As he is spitting Teresa is hissing, “_ Go, go, go! _” and waving at them frantically. Eventually, they get the hint and hide as Teresa wraps herself up to her neck in her dressing gown, and furiously rubs at the makeup stains on her face in the mirror before going to open the door. Thomas and Newt find themselves on the side of Teresa’s queen size bed that faces the balcony, knees pulled up and slouching to obscure the tops of their heads. 

As Teresa talks to her mom through a small gap in the door (Her mom’s, _ There you are! It’s 1pm, what have you been doing? _ And Teresa’s, _ Sorry, sorry, overslept! _) Thomas and Newt sit in silence, neither looking at each other. He realises he is not wearing any pants and notices the sickly pale colour of his legs and shudders at the thought that this is how the rest of him looks, as well. After a minute Thomas sighs, and whispers, “It was an energy replacement pill. You know –” he stutters, “You know the ones we got off Beth last year?” 

“You mean the ones that George kept taking like candy during exam season and it almost killed him?” Newt whispers back, “You still have those?”

“I do. I didn’t think I did – I forgot they existed, sitting in the bottom of my drawer, but one day I was looking for – doesn’t matter. I found them, sitting there in the little tin and. I was going to get rid of them, but then I didn’t and, well. Yeah. It was just –” Thomas sighs, scrubbing his face. Behind them, Teresa is still talking with her mother. “I had shit to do, and that,” Thomas points to the yellow vial Newt holds tight in his fist, “doesn’t help. I can’t sleep and I needed to sleep but I couldn’t. And work, and Sonya’s show, and – shit. I ruined her gig. Newt, I’m –”

Newt holds up a hand, silencing him. “Stop rambling before you swallow your tongue.” Newt sighs, “You didn’t ruin the show, Tommy. Not too much.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow. “Really?” 

Newt raises his eyebrow. “Didn’t you see her? She was in there throwing elbows with the best of us. No,” Newt shakes his head, “You didn’t let her down. Staying home because you’re three bloody steps away from a coma and needed a night off wouldn’t have let her down, Tommy. But you know what would have? You having a heart attack and dying in the middle of the bar.” Newt says, “That would have disappointed her, Tommy. Not you not showing up. It would have killed her, it would have killed –” Newt stops. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. 

“When you passed out it was … it was terrifying,” Newt concludes. His eyes are far away, staring at the white curtains moving in the wind. A part of Thomas wants to know what happened in the interim between the bar and coming back here, but another part of him remembers the tear stains down Teresa’s cheeks and the tense line of Newt’s shoulders and is too ashamed to find out. 

“I’m sorry,” Thomas apologises, his voice barely a whisper. 

“Don’t say sorry to me. Tell it to Liz when you see her next. I should let her know you’re not dead …” 

Thomas says, “But I do have to apologies to you, also.” 

Newt pauses, hand closed in a fist around his phone. “What for?” 

“For.” Thomas bites the inside of his cheek, and forces the words out, “For that guy. Last night. I guess I kind of ruined things for you with him, too. Sorry.” 

It takes Newt a moment, but then the penny drops and he gasps, “Oh,” cheeks flushing sheepishly. Thomas stares back, confused. “Yeah, look, Tommy. That wasn’t anything. Adam works at the engineering centre and he – I don’t know, I was trying to see if he could pull some strings for me in the biochemistry wing.”

The penny drops for Thomas as well, a couple of them actually, and before he can stop himself the corner of his mouth tugs into a smirk, and he says, “So, you were trying to flirt your way into an apprenticeship?”

Newt wrinkles his nose, and grunts, “Yeah. Didn’t really turn out, did it?”

Thomas stares at his knees, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry.” 

Newt places a hand on top of his to stop them. “Stop, it’s okay. I changed my mind about it, anyway.” 

It doesn’t sound like it, but Thomas doesn’t say anything more. 

Teresa is now talking with her mother on the other side of the door, a little way down the hall, but still, neither of them move. Thomas makes the mistake of leaning on his fist wrong and slipping and hitting his eye. 

“Shit,” he hisses, gritting his teeth in pain. 

“Careful, careful,” Newt tuts, reaching out to still his chin, and examines his face. He grimaces at what he sees, and Thomas makes a quick glance around the room to see if there is anything he can catch his reflection in. “Yeah, that’s a good one, there. You cut your eyebrow, too, by the way. Teresa patched you up.” 

Thomas suddenly can’t wait to see what shade of ladybug bandage he has on his forehead. 

Newt has a bruise as well, but it is small, on his cheekbone, and already fading. Thomas reaches out to bush his fingers over the tender skin. Newt’s lips stutter, and his eyes widen. 

“Yours isn’t bad,” Thomas says.

Newt replies, “That’s because I know how to duck, Tommy,” a little breathless, and the ghost of a look that suddenly takes over his expression is sad, and foreign, and not completely his. Thomas desperately wants to ask. 

Teresa bursts back into the room in a flurry, carrying an armful of laundry which she dumps on the bed and stabs the off button on her revolving pedestal fan. Thomas and Newt jump in unison, startled. 

“Okay,” She says, taking off her robe and throwing it with the now pile of once neatly folded laundry. “I’m sorry, but you guys need to leave. Like _ now _.” 

They stand. Thomas looks around the room for his pants and shoes and finds both hiding under the bottom half of one of the big white curtains, blown on to the large purple swivel arm chair in the corner of the room. 

Thomas nods. “We’ll take the back exit.”

Teresa blanches, and so does Thomas, stalling at his own words. He’d taken the “back exit” on many occasions during their time in a relationship, when he’d realised he’d slept too long and morning light was now pouring in through the gap in the curtains, and the only way to avoid running into any family members was to abseil down the terrace off of Teresa’s balcony. 

(Thomas still remembers winding one of her curls around his finger as he had one leg over the balcony railing, leant over to kiss her goodbye, lingering until she eventually laughed and batted him away.) 

Their eyes meet now, and from the look in her eyes, Thomas knows she is thinking the same thing.

Newt is concentrating very hard on the far wall. 

Teresa breaks free of the memory first, and says, “You are not leaving from the balcony. Not in your state. You –” she barely swallows a wince, “You’ll have to come downstairs.” 

Thomas closes his eyes and groans. 

“Okay,” Newt says, voice odd, pointing at the balcony with his thumb, beginning to back towards it, “I’ll just –”

“You’re not going off the balcony, either,” Teresa says, sternly. “You _ both _ have to leave out the front. Newt, you have to come too, or else they’ll think …”

Her eyes flicker to Thomas for a millisecond, and Thomas thinks,_ Oh. Right. _

Newt clears his throat and nods after a startled moment, cheeks faintly pink. 

The three of them shuffle downstairs, shoulder to shoulder like a trouple of flamingos, to awkwardly make their presence known to Teresa’s parents before Thomas and Newt bid their adieus and bolt out of the house with their tails between their legs.

At the sound of footsteps Teresa’s mother calls to them from the kitchen, which they, unfortunately, must pass on the way to the front door as well as the living room which houses her brother and dad. One is watching TV while the other sprawls out with what appears to be five textbooks lining the length of his legs, none of which he appears to be attempting to read. 

“There she is,” Mrs. Agnes says, not turning away from where she is cooking eggs on a frying pan. “The princess has risen from her tower. We have leftover pancakes from breakfast – your brother made them, they aren’t half bad. Or I’m cooking up some omelets for lunch, whatever you prefer.” 

At the mention of food mixed with the smell of frying eggs Thomas’ stomach takes it upon itself to announce their presence on behalf of them by grumbling _ very _ loudly. 

“Oh! Liar, you _ are _ hungry! Here, sit down and I’ll make you a plate of –” 

Thomas thinks it’s quite a fete of Mrs. Agnes’ that she does not drop the saucepan of eggs all over the floor. 

There is a stiff, awkward pause in the room where Teresa’s mother doesn’t say anything, Teresa’s father drops the remote on the floor where it lands with a loud _ thump _, and her brother bursts into laughter.

“Hello,” Mrs Agnes says, eventually, voice odd. 

Teresa warns, “Mom.”

Thomas smiles and waves. Newt does the same, mumbling, “Heya.”

Her eyes flit between Newt and Thomas in confusion, not quite sure who to focus on. After a minute it is, “Thomas, lovely to see you again, sweetheart.”

“_Mom_,” Teresa warns, harsher.

Thomas cleans his throat. “You too, Mrs Agnes.” 

“Isaac, was it?” 

Newt barely conceals a flinch. “Yes, ma’am, but you can call me Newt.”

“Would your friends be staying for lunch?”

“No, they’re just leaving.” 

“There’s enough food for everyone.”

“Mom, they have to _ go_.”

Thomas and Newt manage to escape by the skin of their teeth with Teresa’s mother looking confused, her dad gaping, her brother making lewd gestures at their backs, and Teresa looking like she very much would like to see the two of them in a shallow grave. Thomas notices his car parked haphazardly out the front of his house, one wheel up on the curb, and gets a flash of an image of Newt driving it up there, mad with fear and exertion, and his heart lurches into his throat. 

Thomas calls out his name and Newt stops and turns. Without hesitating, Thomas leans forward and wraps his arms around Newt’s shoulders. Newt is stiff for a heartbeat only, relaxing when Thomas presses his chin into the skin where his shoulder meets his neck and says, “I’m sorry I scared you.” 

Newt breathes deeply, and the rest of the tension in him goes. “You should be,” he mumbles, hands on the small of Thomas’ back. 

Thomas closes his eyes and sighs. “Thank you for not taking me to the hospital. Or to Mary. I’m not sure which would be worse. Actually, no – the first one won’t defy patient confidentiality and tell my parents, therefore sentencing me to life under house arrest.”

Newt huffs a laugh that doesn’t quite feel like a laugh. The budding breeze disturbs the fine blonde hairs curling below his ears, loose from their bounds, and tickles Thomas’ nose, and he turns his face inward toward Newt’s neck to escape. 

“Yeah, well, it was touch and go for a while. For a second I thought – doesn’t matter.” Newt shakes his head. “You’re bloody welcome, mate.” 

Thomas smiles and, without thinking, plants a small kiss on the nape of Newt’s neck. “I’m going to go pass out for three days, now,” Thomas says upon leaning back, holding Newt out at arm’s length. 

Newt hums and nods, mouth twitching into a middling smile. “I’m going to be texting you every five hours, and if you don’t answer within thirty minutes, I will be sicking a hoard of paramedics on your ass, no mercy. You realise that, right?”

Thomas just laughs and hugs Newt again. 

Thomas sleeps for exactly 17 hours and 40 minutes, waking up at 7AM to pee, eat a handful of cheerios’, reply to Newt’s three messages (_ Please don’t call the weewoo wagon I’m alive, _ to which he received the short but eloquent reply of, _ Fuckwit.) _and feed the cats before falling back asleep and waking up when the sun is setting, Barnacle on his chest and Calypso curled in a rather protective manner around his head, but, with her teeth threateningly close to his face, tremendously unimpressed. 

Thomas thinks she is the most mercurial cat he has ever met in his life. 

Bleary-eyed and brain so foggy he’d require a horn to navigate through it, he scratches her behind the ears and mumbles, “Yeah, yeah, I’m up.” 

He does, in fact, get up, and stays up this time. By the time the sun has settled below the horizon, moons casting silky shadows over the entirety of the sector, Thomas is wide awake, thinking and seeing clearer, and realises a couple things; 1. Sleeping so late and for so long means that he has not only missed one dose of his medicine, but five of them, and 2. The first time he made the trek up to his room (only tripping on the stairs twice) to his bedroom he hadn’t bothered to get undressed and simply fell face-first onto the bed, and immediately passed out. This happened again during the 7 AM interlude and, now, when he pats his hip is when he feels it – or, rather, doesn’t feel it. 

The crystal is gone. 

Thomas devotes a good ten minutes to cycling through what he assumes is the seven stages of grief with particular focus on stages 1, 3, and, towards the end, 4, before eventually flopping in a heap on the plush rug in his living room and roaring into a pillow. 

(It’s so embarrassing that even the cats have the good nature to look away.) 

After twenty more minutes of wallowing in self-deprecation, mind finally done with its marathon race of mentally retracing Thomas’ steps until he comes to terms with the fact that it is probably sitting in the middle of the bar under some table, collecting dust and grime, Thomas digs his phone out of his pocket and dials his mother on auto. 

Flat on his back and staring at the high, tapered ceilings: the vision of teenage anguish. 

A man’s voice picks up on the other end, and opens with, “Insomniac’s Anonymous Help Line. If hearing about my day doesn’t knock you out like a horse dosed up on five pounds of Benadryl we guarantee your money back.”

“Oh. Hi, dad. Uh. Five pounds?” 

“Don’t sound so excited, now,” his dad says, voice clipped. “And yes, five of them.”

“But that’s … comatose, right?”

“Oh, possibly dead, I imagine.” 

Thomas grimaces. “Sorry, I just thought I dialed mom?”

“You did,” he says, flat, “She’s just in the pool, love. Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Just bored. Wanted to, I don’t know, talk, I guess.” 

He can hear the raised eyebrow in the tilt on his father’s tone, “At this hour of the night?” 

Thomas realises, suddenly, that he has been staring at the high, glorious ceiling, for five hours. He winces. “Can’t sleep, either.” 

“Are you _ sure _ everything’s alright?” his dad asks, accent slipping around vowels in a way that makes him sound like one of those men in hats and penguin suits who stand outside the doors of gala events or award nights and frown at anyone who’s suit doesn’t look like it cost them their firstborn child. 

Thomas rolls his eyes but keeps it out of his voice. “Yeah, fine, dad. You don’t have to worry. How’s Ganymede?” He asks, before his father can add anything to the _ You don’t have to worry _ statement. 

His dad sounds instantly more awake than three seconds ago. “Beautiful, Thomas, absolutely amazing, I wish you could see it. You have to let me bring you over one day. The trip has been good so far, yeah, except they decided to give us a Leisure Day.” 

Thomas frowns. “That’s a bad thing?”

“Well, see, one of the executives apparently overheard someone complaining about a crick in their neck and panicked they would sue the event company for lack of clientele care, or something equally as stupid. Anyway, they’ve all stuck us inside this leisure centre for a day – quite a lovely view, I’ll give it that – except there is fuck all to do. Pardon. Don’t swear.”

Thomas smirks, “So you’ve been …?”

“Watching your mother partake in water aerobics and test how long she can hold her breath in an underwater handstand that will allegedly realign her chi and focus energy – and I quote – ‘toward the good shit and away from the bad shit’ – pardon again – for the last two and a half hours? While I fill out every single crossword in this health magazine entirely centred around physical freedom and sexual liberation? Why yes, Thomas. Yes, I absolutely have.”

Thomas can’t help it, the laugh bursts out of him in quick, bird-like chirps. “Wow, dad, you’re having a _ day_.” 

His dad grumble-hums. Thomas can faintly hear the sound of water splashes, whistles, and the scratching of a pencil against gloss paper. “Quite. Don’t suppose you’ll be too bothered if we come home early?” 

“Absolutely not,” Thomas says, “You’ll miss the interactive portion of the seminar tomorrow!” 

“Oh, yes,” Dad mumbles, “Something to look forward to. If they don’t lock the doors and keep us here forever. Anyway. Tell me more. How are the killers doing?” 

“Calypso’s ready to use me as ransom to get mom to come home early. Pretty sure Barnacle just thinks the two of you are at the store on one really long cat food trip.”

Thomas and his father aren’t the best of friends. They get along most days, yes, but he wouldn’t exactly describe them as close in any way. A part of him that bends with shame would go so far as to say, sometimes, when his father is sitting in the love seat opposite Thomas on the three-seater, giving him a lecture about responsibility without once glancing up from his book, or talking to him like he is a lodger in their home, eyes dead and voice level in a flat drawl, Thomas would say he prefers the company of his mother. She’s easier to talk to and be around, and Thomas feels like she listens when he speaks – actually listens, and doesn’t just nod along a give a low effort clipped reply when he is done. 

“Astrology,” Teresa had said once, laid on her stomach on the floor and painting her nails, “Sonya’s really cluey with that stuff, you should ask her. But I think your star signs have something to do with it. You and your dad’s clash but you and your mom’s match.” 

Thomas had rolled his eyes and ignored her. He thought it was ridiculous – he and his dad didn’t always not get along. They were close when he was younger, during the golden days of childhood, when the sun rose and set with a pink and orange hue, and glitter around the edges, and in Thomas’ eyes his father was reason for the moons shining bright and beautiful every night. 

Then he grew up. 

“The dinner is next week, his dad says in his ear. Thomas blinks, and rises up out of his thoughts. “Make sure you don’t forget.”

Thomas sighs. “How could I? It’s the only thing you’re letting me leave the house for.” 

His father hums, and Thomas knows that he does not believe for a second that Thomas has kept himself holed up in the house with the cats and video games like a good, grounded child. At this point, it’s just a running gag.

“Remember –”

“How important it is to mingle and make nice with big, haughty business people in fancy suits, yeah, dad. I know.”

“Well …”

“Yes?”

“I want you to have fun, too. Enjoy yourself.”

Thomas pauses. “Okay.”

“I want you to know that life isn’t all about work, okay?” his dad tells him, and Thomas says, “Yours is,” before he can stop himself.

A strict moment of silence commences from that point on, during which his father does not say a word and Thomas bites his tongue and pushes his fist into the bruise over his eye until the pain makes his _ toes _ hurt. 

It passes, and his dad croaks, “Oh, Thomas, she’s coming out now. Did you want me to pass you over?”

He says, “Uh, no, it’s okay. I’ll call back another time.” 

“Alright, whatever you want. Please go to sleep, now,” he says.

“Yeah, sure. Bye, dad.” Thomas hangs up the phone, tossing it over to the couch, and sighs deeply. After an hour Barnacle trots downstairs and utilises Thomas’ chest as her bed, and he eventually falls asleep like that, on the living room floor. 

–

The days leading up to the annual Gala proceeds, in order, as follows:

Day one – Not a lot happens. Thomas sleeps all day, only waking up to quickly text whatever friend tagged in this time to check on him. He cuddles Barnacle a little (a lot, actually, and maybe cried a little into her fur while watching _ Pleasantville _ ) ate toast for dinner, played a dumb game on his phone Minho sent to him, watched _ Pleasantville _ again and brushed Calypso’s fur. 

_ Nothing’s gonna change my world _, the end credits sing at him, while Thomas stared yet again at the current shade of the living room wall and contemplated turning it cannery yellow or stark black, and attempted not to spiral into complete existentialism. 

Jai guru deva om. 

Day two – He repaints the wall canary yellow and regrets it instantly. Teresa buzzes in over the radio and Thomas ignores her and feels bad about it. He thinks someone knocks on the door but he ignores that too and locks himself in his parent’s en suite bathroom for an hour. He draws himself a bath and enjoys the warmth of the water against his skin, loosening his muscles and relaxing the tension that has been building in his temples and the crown of his head for the last few hours. 

He becomes bored pretty fast, however, and wishes he’d brought his phone in with him to at least put some music on, but the thought of getting up to retrieve it is far too harrowing to attempt, so Thomas nestles in silence. The water is, after five minutes, a little too hot, and Thomas can’t decide on what scent he wants it to be. It seems like his life is just a constant stream of decisions over colour these days. He remembers the crystal that he does not have anymore, and the back of his eyes immediately begin to sting. 

Thomas changes the water to soft Tangerine Sunshine orange and dips below the surface. 

Day three – Thomas begins to realise that he has not left the house in a while. He gets a text from Mel asking him if he can work tomorrow and, _ I know you haven’t been feeling well so if you can’t it’s okay _ , which prompts a suspicious eyebrow raise, and panic to swell in his stomach. He texts his boss back; _ Feeling a lot better! See you tomorrow! _ with an unsent, _ Please don’t fire me_.

It is the day of his next appointment with Mary, which he arrives at an hour earlier. She takes him through the usual consultation and towards to end checks his lungs and breathing, temperature and blood pressure. Thomas doesn’t ask her for specifics, and she doesn’t ask if he followed the directions on the bottle down to the T, however has an inkling that she somehow knows more than he’s told her. 

At the end of the session, Mary gives him a heart-shaped lollipop and sends him on his way. 

Minho and Newt come over around noon. Minho brings video games and chocolate and Newt brings Thomas’ favourite energy drink, bubble-gum flavoured. Thomas feels a pang in his stomach when he sees him, remembering the crystals, and the one he lost. They spend the night watching trashy talk shows and eating popcorn, high on sugar, until Thomas falls asleep and wakes up with his Minho’s arms curled around Thomas’ knees, using his thigh as a pillow, and Newt behind him, arms locked tight and protectively around Thomas’ middle, warm breath on the back of his neck. 

Day four – Minho and Newt help themselves to the food in Thomas’ kitchen and tell him that he will need to make a trip to the store soon. Thomas leaves them in the house (Newt loving the cats and Minho hiding behind the dining table) and drives to work with the top down and the radio playing, feeling light and enjoying the fresh air on his skin. The engineers have lowered the shield today, as is tradition during the days leading up to the Gala, and Jupiter abides above his head, pale in the bright blue sky as it watches over the sector.

Sonya is wiping down a table when he sees her, hair pulled up in two buns high on her head and dyed in pastel galaxy colours. Did she have it like that on the night? 

Thomas says her name and she turns, fast, wet towel hanging limp in her hand, and for a moment Thomas thinks she will hug him but Sonya keeps her feet planted on the ground – or, rather, her skates locked in place. 

She asks him if he is okay and Thomas replies, _ Yes_. She asks him what happened that night and Thomas doesn’t really have an answer for it, not one that she deserves. She does not comment on the purple bruise on his face, slowly turning yellow.

Thomas says, “You sounded amazing,” and Sonya gives him a strange look he can’t quite place. There is no one in the store this morning so Sonya puts the _ Back In Five _sign on the door and hops up on a table, and begins to tell him how the owner of the bar, despite the commotion, had liked her so much that he invited her back to perform regularly. She is practically vibrating with excitement as she tells him this, and Thomas congratulates her and, for one terrifying moment, she looks like she might cry. 

She tells him, “You really scared me,” and Thomas tells her he knows and says sorry about five times consecutively until she leans forward and hugs him to shut him up. 

They hear a knock on the glass doors a minute later and turn around to see three girls standing on the other side of it, looking miffed. Thomas laughs and rolls over to open the door, and greets the new customers. 

Day five – Thomas downloads _ Across the Universe _ on his phone and listens to it while he grocery shops, humming along softly in the bread aisle. He takes a photo of all the bags on the kitchen island when he gets home and sends it to his mom, and receives an exciting series of emojis half a minute later. After he has put everything away and successfully kept the felines away from most of them, Thomas realises he can’t find the eggs. He goes back out to the car to look for them and finds the small, discarded bag in the back seat, and something shiny under the driver’s seat. 

Thomas’ heart lurches into his throat as he half-dive under the seat, fingers reaching until he feels the familiar, cool surface against the pads of his fingertips. Thomas’ closes his hand around the crystal and opens it to see it gloriously pulsing a deep blue-violet, as if it, too, was as happy to see Thomas as Thomas was to see it. His chest tightens with emotions and the back of his eyes begin to burn, and Thomas wonders if feeling over-emotional was another side effect of Mary’s medicine, or if this is just a late-running effect of puberty. 

Thomas almost forgets the eggs in favour of watching the colour – a beautiful shade, one he’s seen a couple times before – glitter and swirl in their ice cacoon. Thomas runs inside, refrigerates the eggs, and calls Newt on a whim. 

Newt answers after a few rings, sounding strained. “Tommy?” 

“Hey, Newt,” Thomas frowns, excitement stuttering, “Are you okay?”

Newt responds after a moment, the sound muffled with movement. “Yeah, fine, yeah,” he breathes, “Why – How ‘bout you?” 

“You sound –” 

“What’s up?” 

“Uh,” Thomas shakes all thoughts away besides the reason he called, feeling warm, “I found it.”

“Found … found what?”

Thomas says, “The Crystal.”

Newt says, “The … Oh. You lost it?”

“Yeah, for a bit.” Thomas sighs, collapsing back on the couch in a flop. “It must’ve fallen out of my pocket the night of the gig. I found it under a car seat.” 

Thomas looks at the crystal now; the colour is fluctuating between blue and purple, deep violet spiking here and there. The sound through the receiver muffles again as Newt moves, and he says, “Good.”

Thomas ends up talking for a while, not particularly about anything, and Newt listens quietly on the other end, chiming in to hum intuitively. Newt, Minho, and Teresa end up coming over later in the night. It’s the first time he’s seen Teresa since That Night and finds it hard to meet her eyes directly for a while. Teresa recaps the conversation with her mother during The Morning After That Night in uncomfortable detail for the sole purpose of making them feel bad. 

Minho’s response to Thomas, Newt and Teresa’s alleged threesome is, “And you didn’t invite me? Guys I’m _ hurt _.” 

Day six – Nothing much happens. Thomas has a swim in the pool, and later takes Calypso for a walk, pulling Barnacle along in her wagon so she won’t cry. Thomas turns his living room deep magenta just to see what it would look like, and to be completely honest it isn’t the worst. The rich colour blends well with the room, the gold trim of the photo frames on the wall, and accentuates various other aspects of the living room décor as well. 

It isn’t bad. It can’t stay, but it isn’t bad. 

His mom calls and they have a long chat out on the patio while he swings in the large round hammock, feeling lulled by the motion instead of ill. 

Thomas finishes the small yellow bottle that afternoon, drinking the last few drops after lunch. The revolving fan on his desk pushes cool air towards him and brushes goosebumps on his skin as Thomas stands in front of the full-length mirror in his room and presses his fingers into the skin of his chest, feeling the dips between his ribs, and focuses on the feeling of his lungs expanding. There is still the sensation of twine strung too tight, or a broken chord in a piano, but it is lesser now. Thomas finds himself able to breathe a little easier. 

The Gala finally rolls by that night. Teresa comes over to Thomas’ an hour and a half before they are due to leave with her heels under one arm and a makeup kit under the other; presumably for Thomas, as Teresa is already dressed to the nines with flawless makeup and a dark blue dress that drapes in soft rivets to the floor. 

Thomas sits on his desk chair and she sits cross-legged on his bed and leans over her knees to paint concealer over the ugly green-yellow-brown bruising over his cheekbone. Her hair falls over her shoulder and in front of her eye repeatedly, which she pushes back with a mildly irritated huff, and Thomas feels the need to hold it back for her. From this vantage point he spots a section of hair behind her ear that has been dyed an electric blue to match her dress. He tells her it looks nice. 

“Thanks,” Teresa hums, eyes narrowed in concentration. She’d muttered something about colour matching before, and the most paranoid crevasse of Thomas’ mind worries he will walk into the Gala looking like the Phantom Of The Opera. “Rach did it. She did Sonya’s hair, too, did you see it?”

Thomas can’t tell if that’s a gripe or not. 

“She’s good,” Thomas mumbles, wriggling awkwardly. 

“I’m almost finished, hold still a little longer,” Teresa says, and Thomas does. Then, she says, “I’m thinking of cutting it short. It’s … it gets in the way.” On queue, her hair falls in front again, and Thomas wonders why she didn’t just tie it up.

“Like Brenda short?”

Teresa hums. “Maybe not Brenda short, but short. Maybe Newt length, or a little longer.”

Thomas doesn’t quite know what to say, or what Teresa would want him to say about it, and feels suddenly uncomfortable. They’ve been told they’re strange before, by multiple parties, Minho and Newt included. _ It’s just weird_, they say, _ No one stays friends with their ex. _

Thomas has tried on many occasions to explain that Teresa is different, and that they have something special, and that he still loves her but he doesn’t _ love _ her, not like she deserved, which had been a major factor in their reasons for breaking up. 

_ It’s still fucking weird, Thomas_, his friends would say, _ Whatever, you guys will be back together in a month_, and laughed when Thomas profoundly disagreed. 

Sometimes he walks into a room and sees Teresa standing in it, and remembers the girl who took his first everything and immediately feels like leaving. Sometimes he wants to grab her and kiss her and doesn’t quite know why. Sometimes he never wants to see her or hear her voice again.

Sometimes he wonders if the pull to her is connected to the feelings inside him that belong to someone else, the same way he worries, laid awake at night and staring at the dark ceiling, that it is the same for Newt. 

Sometimes, Thomas feels worried he doesn’t entirely know who he is. 

He tells Teresa, “I think you should do whatever you want to do,” and she pauses her a moment, makeup brush hovering in the air, and looks at Thomas with wide, earnest eyes, like he’d said exactly what she was hoping to hear. 

When she is done covering his face with product (Thomas peeks in the mirror as soon as she is done, and just like magic any trace of bruising is gone) Teresa stands before the mirror and spends a good five minutes swooping her hair up into an intricate updo. When that’s done, and she’s shaking her arms out to reintroduce blood flow to the tips of her fingers, she eyes her makeup bag thoughtfully, before turning to Thomas with a particular gleam in her eyes and asking, “Can I put some eyeliner on you?”

Thomas blinks, feeling tired, and he says, “If it’ll make you happy.” 

Teresa puts eyeliner on him, and Thomas’ insides turn to jelly as she is lining his waterline, before she leaves the room so he can change into his suit. Thomas takes a look at his face in the mirror and sees his eyes too big, rimmed in kohl and smudged out in a way that accentuates them a little too much for his liking. Thomas turns away and gets dressed.

The suit itself is nice; predominately charcoal with a gold trim pattern that is woven intricately down the lapels and the cuffs of his sleeves. It fits a lot better than it did last time he’d worn it, he admits, sitting nicer around the shoulders and not so baggy around the middle. Thomas decides his hair is a lost cause and formally gives up on it, and goes downstairs to meet Teresa. He finds her in the kitchen making kissy-faces at Barnacle, and snorts at Calypso, who lounges on the couch in dramatic misery, probably wondering why Teresa is here and her second favourite person on the four moons isn’t. 

She fixes his tie and they go outside to await the others.

They made plans to travel to the Gala together in the Flower Power Machine, except despite the size you can only fit so many teenagers in fancy dress in a van, and so far Ben, Rachel, and Brenda have said they’re making their own way to the event. Aris will be driving with his parents and sister, and there has been radio silence from Minho and Gally all afternoon, which is why Thomas is surprised to find Minho strolling up to them from down the street, black pinstripe suit with a red bow tie hanging loose around his neck, two fingers raised in greeting.

“Hey, guys,” he says, “Hope there’s still room for me?”

“Always.” Teresa leans up to greet him with a kiss on the cheek, and when Minho smiles it doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. He meets Thomas’ gaze for a moment to briefly flash him the same smile before looking away. 

A familiar horn reaches their ears and they all turn to see the van driving too fast as always down the street toward them, except this time Sonya must have decided that it couldn’t miss out on the fun of getting dressed up for the event and decked it out in fairly lights and other accessories that has to violate at least five road rules. Sonya pulls up out the front in a flourish, window down, elbow hanging out of it, wind blowing through her loose hair, and a smile brighter than the sun. All she’s missing is a runway. 

Harriet’s head appears behind Sonya, jewels around her eyes glowing luminously in the dark. “Hop in lady and gentlemen,” she says. 

Teresa and Minho crawl into the car while Thomas slides into the back seat beside Newt who, being so quiet, Thomas almost hadn’t noticed he was there. 

Ridiculous, as when he sees him his heart launches into his throat, and he finds it hard to breathe, suddenly. Newt has dressed head to toe in black apart from a golden tie around his neck, details intricately woven into the satin material, and when he turns his head a faint dusting of gold glitter highlights the skin around his eyes, just so that it would only be visible in certain light. His hair is tied back and his face lights up when Thomas slides into the seat beside him, and Thomas’ head feels a little faint. 

“Hi,” Thomas croaks.

“Evening,” Newt replies, “You look –”

His sentence is cut off by Sonya pressing the button to slam the side door shut, and switching on the radio to something loud. “Let’s go!” 

Thomas catches Newt rolling his eyes. 

They are driving for a minute or so when Newt leans over to Thomas (he smells like mint, but mixed with some kind of spicy cologne that makes Thomas’ mouth water) and asks, “Is Minho okay?” 

Thomas blinks. “Huh?” 

Newt lowers his voice, “He just very quiet back there, and, I don’t know, there was something in his face when we pulled in.”

“He is quiet,” Thomas agrees, “but I’m not sure why. I didn’t get to ask.” 

They have learnt, over the years, that when Minho is moody it is best not to push, as doing so will only cause him to retreat further. There’s a system that Thomas and Newt have built, where they will take turns gently nudging the truth out of him, not at once so he doesn’t feel like he is being bombarded. The best thing above all is to allow Minho to feel like he is telling them what’s bothering him on his own, because there is absolutely nothing that Minho hates more than knowing people know he is upset. 

Thomas catches Minho’s reflection in the mirror, and sees him leaning slightly against the window, eyebrows pinched as he stares down at his phone.

The Gala is always held at Ms. Paige’s house; a three-story 20,000 square foot mansion on the edge of the sector with a driveway that stretches on for half a mile, lined with perfectly trimmed palms, hedges, and beautiful stone sculptures. A fourth of that square footage is taken up by a glittering natural swimming pool, a tennis court, and a golf course. Newt got to stay in it for a whole week when he was fourteen, during the time when his childhood house was being renovated and Ms. Paige had graciously allowed his family to stay in her home for the week, as the end of their renovation and the lease on their unit they were renting during the process hadn’t lined up. 

The van is stopped at the first gate that leads to a small car park for the people who either are not honoured guests, don’t own a mansion of their own, can’t afford valet parking, or show up in a van decked to the halls in fairy lights and glitter. Thomas is honestly surprised Sonya hadn’t stuck eyelashes on the headlights, but he thinks that might even be a bit too far even for her. The man at the gate gives them their tickets and allocated parking space, which turns out to be all the way in the corner beside a fern. 

Probably so he won’t have to look at it for the whole of his shift. 

Sonya takes Harriet and Teresa’s hands and they run ahead towards the house, pausing to admire a few of the moss-covered statues along the way. Newt slings his arms around Thomas and Minho’s shoulders as they walk. 

The theme this year is _ Life Could Be a Dream_. Lights fall from the trees as everyone walks towards the house, and round spheres the size of Thomas’ palm dance and sway gently on the ground among the trees lining the driveway. Servers wait with plates of champagne at the door, and Thomas happily accepts one on his way in. 

The house is alive with music and the voices of hundreds of guests stacking on top of each other like a Jenga tower as soon as they enter through the wide doors. 

Ever since Monica Kelly was photographed on the town dressed in a loud periwinkle and bubble gum pink ensemble, and her partner in white on white on white, every glamour magazine and television channel dubbed these the Colours of the Summer, and now almost every guest in sight is decked out in those colours. 

Seeing them all together, Thomas’ corrupted brain’s first thought is, _ Maybe the wall should be powder blue. _ He suddenly can’t wait for his parents to come home. 

Gally slips into stride with them as Minho is pulling Newt and Thomas towards the chocolate fountain and rum punch, falling into step beside Minho. 

“What a ball, am I right?” he says. 

Minho looks a little startled but recovers fast, and Newt snorts. He says, “Hold on, everyone, we’ve got a comedian in our midst.”

“I try,” Gally shrugs, hands in his pockets. Tonight, he’s decided to forgo the typical shirt and tie set and gone for a thin cream turtle neck under a black blazer, hair slicked to the side. Thomas thinks this is the first time he’s seen him without looking like he’s just rolled out of a truck stop garage. His hair even looks clean. It’s a good look for him. 

“The food’s damn good this year,” Gally says, “Paige really stepped it up with the catering. Probably because at 110 I can’t imagine the old pallet would be _ that _ crash, you know? Can’t really tell what’s good and what just tastes like caramelised shit, so you’d really want to make the extra effort. I would, anyway. I recommend the prawns, actually, they –”

“Thanks, will do,” Minho cuts him off, tone clipped, and loops a hand through Thomas and Newt’s elbows and continues to pull them to the other side of the room without so much as a glance toward Gally. A look back from Thomas shows his jaw set and eyes stony, standing there a moment and watching them walk away before turning and storming into the other room. 

Thomas and Newt exchange an alarmed look over the top of Minho’s head. Minho fills a glass of punch to the rim, and Newt leans over his shoulder and asks, “What the hell was that about?”

Minho just shrugs and drains half the punch in one gulp, and walks off with a chocolate-coated strawberry between his teeth. Thomas and Newt exchange very alarmed looks. 

“We should –” 

“Ooh punch.” 

Aris bursts between them like a tiny red hurricane, going straight for the fruit punch. Thomas and Newt blink as Aris fills half a cup, drains it in a second, and then refills it. He says, “It’s been a long day, boys,” and offers no other information. 

_ It’s going to be a long night, _ Thomas thinks and finishes his champagne. 

“Ooh shrimp,” Charlotte appears at her brother’s elbow, plucking a small prawn off the platter and tipping her head back to allow it to fall in her mouth, olive oil dripping down the side of her chin, which she quickly wipes away. “Hey, Thomas. Hi, Newt,” she mumbles between bites. 

“Hi, Charlotte,” they say in unison. The siblings are matching in scarlet tonight, and between Charlotte’s strappy, no back gown and red-winged eyes, and Aris’ satin suit with mesh lapels and matching liner, they look like a force to be reckoned with. They also look like they’re giving their parents, a sweet but conservative couple from the rolling valleys of Io, multiple aneurysms. 

“It’s so beautiful tonight,” she says and, glancing toward the large floor to second-story window where Jupiter is in full swing, her planets hovering around and shining bright, Thomas has to agree. Charlotte does not stick around for long, spotting someone from school across the hall, calling out to them and waving gleefully before hurrying over. 

That leaves Aris and his punch, shovelling strawberries and bananas in his mouth like they won’t exist in the morning. 

“Okay,” Newt says, “We’re having no luck with Minho, so do you want to tell us what’s wrong?”

Aris ignores the question and instead asks, “Have you seen your sister?” 

Newt gives him a look. 

Aris sighs, “Not particularly, no.” 

Thomas asks, “What? Is there something we missed?”

“During your five day hermit hold up in the house? No, not really. Well, yes. _ Well _. No. Yes and no. It’s not important.” 

“Okay, well –” 

“It’s just,” Aris shoves a whole strawberry in his mouth, chews it at lightning speed, and continues, “I go out on a limb, you know? I go out on a limb and for what?” 

Newt sighs and leans against the table, looking the tiniest bit like he regrets asking. 

Aris continues, “Whatever, it doesn’t even matter.” 

“No, hey, it does matter,” Thomas says, and Newt pouts and bats his eyes at Thomas over Aris’s sandy blonde head. Thomas maturely ignores him. “Aris, you are –” he hesitates, only for a moment, but Aris hears it and glares. Thomas winces, “a _ great _ guy. You’re attractive, and you can, uh, you can,” The champagne might be putting in the work, now, “you can draw really well. Like wow, and –”

“What Major Tom is trying to say,” Newt cuts in, “is you can do better.” 

At this Aris looks up at something over Newt’s shoulder, and Thomas follows to gaze to a guy he vaguely recognises from the monument party, who Aris had puppy-eyed Thomas into standing with him while he flirted. Newt doesn’t even bother looking over.

Aris sighs, “Thank you, but –”

“Aris.” New sounds strained and enunciates each work pointedly, somewhat as if they cause him physical pain, “Go find my sister and Harriet by the piano. I’m sure they would be extremely thrilled to see you.” 

Aris frowns, not quite understanding. Meanwhile Thomas nearly chokes on the last drop of his champagne. 

Newt glares. “For fucks sake, don’t make me spell it out.” 

Aris’ mouth opens and closes for half a minute, stuttering, before blushing some more and scampering off. 

Thomas gapes at Newt, scandalised. Newt groans. “The upstairs acoustics are shit. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Newt pours himself a generous glass of punch before taking Thomas’ hand and pulling him toward where the rest of their friends are hanging out. They’ve somehow managed to claim an ottoman and loveseat all to themselves in a small alcove in between two large purple ferns and a statue of a woman holding up a moon the size of the beach ball above her head. Minho flops down between Brenda and Teresa, the former practically glowing in a black and white suit, and throws his arms around both their shoulders, drink sloshing out of the glass and barely managing to miss Rachel’s thigh. Thomas finds himself wondering where Gally is when he appears, walking back in from one of the small balconies that line the edge of this wing of the home, smelling like peppermint tobacco when he squeezes past Thomas to plant himself down beside Ben.

The bunch of them mill about for a short while until three things happen in consecutive order – 1. Nel, his gossiping neighbour, spots him out among the thousands and waltzes up to them in a long pink dress with a large periwinkle boa around her neck that looks like it’s suffocating her, cheeks already rosy on the champagne, and launches into a monologue about, _ Oh! How handsome you look! _ and, _ Oh, how your mother and father must be so sad to miss out this year _ and, _ Are these your friends? Do I see – _

And that’s as far as she gets before Thomas cuts her off to the chorus of snickering behind him and tells her, _Thank you, Nel, you look, uh, lovely yourself_ and, _I’m sure they are_ and, _Hey, have you tried the shrimp?_ To which she says she hasn’t and Thomas tells her she should – Gally affirming – and, finally, she leaves. Sonya, Harriet and Aris return and Newt refuses to look at anything or anyone, pressing his forehead to Thomas’ shoulder. The lights flash and a voice over the speakers announces that the mayor will now give his speech. 

They gather in the main ballroom and he does just that, backlit by thousands of moonflowers of every colour and size, and a sizeable orchestra. Thomas doesn’t pay attention to the speech, it being too similar to ones he has heard before at countless Galas over the years (_So pleased and honoured to have everyone here at our 74__th _ _ annual Gala event. It is my pleasure too … _ and he goes on to list the number of achievements and goals for the next year. The usual.)

James and Monica Kelly are, of course, Ms. Paige’s most honoured guests, who she welcomes on stage after she herself ascends the grand, golden stairs up on the podium helped by Newt’s mother, holding her hand, the two of them whispering as they go. It strikes Thomas suddenly that he hasn’t seen the woman since last year’s Gala. With such a large time frame it is easy to see now how much she has aged over the last twelve months. Last year she was able to stand on her own with only a pearl cane to keep her balance, however now, if Newt’s mom were to let go, he wonders if she’d succeed in remaining vertical.

The crowd roars at the sight of the most famous couple on the four moons. The two of them look like they bathed in silver moondust, Thomas thinks, to their gelled hair and clothes made out of fabrics that look like they cost more than Thomas’ house. When Monica smiles the crowd applauds, and when James touches her large, round belly Thomas hears a sob or two in his general vicinity. 

When James leans down to place a big kiss on his wife’s cheek, Minho leans into Newt and Thomas and murmurs, “You think he thinks he has, like, magic cum or something?” and Newt snorts so loud they receive multiple dirty looks from patrons in front of around them. Thomas’ shoulders quake as he buries his face in Minho’s shoulder, struggling to breathe. 

Then, Brenda leans in and adds, “About as much as she thinks she has a magic pussy,” and it is truly an accomplishment that they don’t get kicked out then and there. 

Monica and James give a little speech that Thomas doesn't really listen to and blow kisses to the crowd afterwards, which they eat up. The orchestra starts up and the mayor announces it is time to begin the festivities. There is never an actual sit-down dinner at these things, Thomas doesn't think, or if there is it is in the upstairs portion of the mansion and exclusively for VIP guests. Everyone else gets waiters and finger foods on silver and bronze platters. 

Thomas, stomach faintly rumbling, grabs a whole heap at once, one by one with the tip of his fingers, and receives a dirty look from the waiter for it. 

The group scatters as soon as the music starts to play, leaving only Thomas, Newt and Teresa skirting the edge of the dance floor, sipping their drinks and nibbling on finger food. Couples migrate towards the dance floor and begin to twirl and sway to the arrangement; high, sweet flutes, horns and gentle violin harmonies accompanied by the singers melodic tones. The first person to find Thomas among the crowd and single him out is, of course, his father’s old boss – the one he’d called a wanker to his face on the day he left – and a man who’s known him since he was eight years old, because Thomas is that lucky. 

“Thomas!” he bellows over to music, approaching with a glass of champagne in his hand. To his left Newt and Teresa startle. “Is that you, my boy? Wow, look at you! Grown so much! How old is it? Sixteen?”

“Eighteen,” Thomas replies, bored (and not for another week, but Mr. Fred Wanker doesn’t need to know that). 

“Oh!” He shouts, too loud, and Thomas can _ feel _ his friends cringing at his back, “A man now!” 

Fred lingers for three whole minutes of Thomas’ life that he will never be able to get back, not even with a sacrificial offering to Jupiter, and eventually through noncommittal _ ah_s and _ hm_s and uninterested yes or no answers ( _ Are these your friends? Yes. Have you seen outside yet? No. Have you started looking into internships yet? Never too early! Yes. Oh, I’m sure mom and dad are so bummed to have to miss the Gala tonight, _ and he so very much wanted to say _ No _ just to see the look on his face) he eventually gives a half stuttered salute that maybe would have been better executed with less alcohol in his system, and leaves. 

The moment of bliss lasts barely a heartbeat before a co-worker of his mother’s, one he knows is very envious of not being chosen to go to Ganymede instead, and is extremely vocal about it – calls out his name, and Thomas wants to die. 

“Thomas! How’s your mom?” 

It goes on for a whole fifteen minutes, during which Newt and Teresa have wandered off and returned with various finger food in their hands. Once Newt slyly hands Thomas a glass behind his back and he takes a quick gulp of it while the current person he is Networking has their head turned. 

He hopes his father is proud of him.

Finally – _ finally! _ – the bodies stop appearing and they are alone again. Thomas breathes deep and Newt and Teresa snicker at his back. He turns to glare at them, mouth open with a half-boiled insult hanging off the tip of his tongue, when Teresa says, “Who wants to dance?” grabbing the side of her skirts and grinning at them both expectantly. 

Thomas instantly blanches, “I –”

“You don’t dance, yeah, yeah,” Teresa says, brushing him off, “I know. Never too late to try new things.”

“Yes,” Newt agrees, and lowers his voice into Moderately Tipsy Callistoian Business Man, “The future is now, Thomas, and your future will come knocking –” 

Thomas swears, “_ Jupiter _. Just go, both of you!”

Teresa takes Newt’s hand and together they run off to the middle of the dance floor. Thomas laughs when they accidentally bump another couple swaying too slow to the tempo of the song the band is playing, and Newt’s eyes widen and he waves a quick apology while Teresa ducks her head to hide her smirk. He is content to simply watch them, two figures among a sea of satin and glitter and silk. Teresa’s dress billows outward when Newt spins them around on the dance floor, holding one hand and pushing out and pulling back in fast that they collide, elegant and purposeful, and Teresa’s laughter reaches his ears, carried to him by the invisible music notes in the air. 

Newt’s hair glows like strung gold under the bright lights of the chandelier, and Thomas thinks they don’t look real. They resemble two figures from the old stories he learnt about in Earth history books, the ones the original humans used to have of the old gods; ethereal beings who look like they were born of diamonds and gold and held together by invisible strings of music notes tied into bows at the nape of their necks. _ Apollo and Artemis _ , Thomas thinks, _ The sun and the moon. _ That would leave Thomas as the man who sewed wings to his back and thought he could reach divinity.

They’re looking at him now, arms around each other and exuberantly waving at Thomas to join them. Newt’s eyes catch him over Teresa’s shoulder, smile big but eyes questioning. His arm extends out like he expects Thomas to walk up and take it, and join the two of them in the embrace. 

His stomach feels heavy, like it could fall to his feet. 

Thomas offers an apologetic smile and shakes his head. Teresa rests her cheek against Newt’s shoulder and pouts over at him, and for a moment Thomas thinks that the look that passes over Newt’s face is one of disappointment, his arms wrapping tighter around Teresa’s back. 

Thomas can feel their eyes tracking him when he walks around the edge of the ballroom and slips into one of the many hallways patterned with green carpet and stone walls, statues, drapes and plants that stretch high above his head, and ones that dip low enough to brush the top of it as Thomas weaves in and around guests mingling in the alcoves. 

It takes a few rounds of trial and error until he finds a balcony that is empty. When Thomas pushes open the French doors and the cool night air kisses his skin he sighs in relief, quickly shutting them behind him. The wind is soft and tastes faintly of lime and mango, the perfume the engineers are expelling into the air, and Thomas leans against the railing and allows it to cool the hot flush of his skin. 

It is a small corner balcony that overlooks the garden, a single table and chair take up space in one corner, and it faces away from the light show in the front so that the pink and gold faintly swirl in the sky before him. The music sounds slower out here, the bass the loudest of all, muffled through the walls. The singer's voice reaches him in sporadically, pronounced most with the higher tones. Wind chimes sing above his head. Jupiter is magnificent.

Thomas closes his eyes. 

It is almost another world out here, sperate from the life and party of the inside of the house and yet somehow different from the rest of the sector. There is not a spot of sand or dirt to be seen on the land before him, only grass and trees and thousands of flowers planted in a purposeful, intricate pattern throughout the garden. There are flower bushes that live on their own and ones that serve as pathways to lead you through the grounds. There is one that he can see from here, white flowers lining a twisting path that leads to a center point – a statue, from what he can tell, shaped specifically like a giant scorpion.

Thomas wonders if Ms. Paige modelled her home after a place she used to know, or used to visit, or perhaps lived in. Standing there, taking it all in, viewing the gardens as a whole but also seeing their individual sections, like points on a map or various stages of a maze, he realizes that as much as the four moons think they know the woman who lives in this house, the great savior of the human race and founder of the Callisto Project, the truth is far more complex. 

The balcony doors click open and the music and sounds of laughter and voices return for a brief moment before they are gone again, and Thomas turns around to find Newt gingerly closing the balcony doors shut. He peeks up at Thomas through his lashes with an almost shy look that Thomas has never seen him wear before. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, shrugging in a way that comes off more like a bodily twitch than a proper _ shrug _, “I searched all the balconies until I found you.” Newt scrunches his nose. “There are a surprising amount of people making out on them … I can go back, if you want to be alone.”

“No, stay!” Thomas says, quickly, heart hammering against his chest. “You can stay. Please stay.”

Newt’s eyes widen for a millisecond before his shoulders relax and he smiles, relieved, moving forward to join Thomas against the cast iron railing. 

“Okay then,” Newt whispers, drumming his fingers lightly against he metal, “I’ll stay.” 

“Having fun in there?” Thomas asks. 

Newt half-scoffs, shrugs, “Sure.” 

“It looked like you were having fun,” he says, keeping it casual. 

Newt likes men, he’s always liked men since he was old enough to be able to appropriately determine where his sexuality compass pointed exactly, but Teresa is, well, _ Teresa_, and a part of Thomas remembers how they looked together on the dance floor and panics, _ Maybe_. 

Newt shrugs again. “Teresa is a lovely dance partner, yes, but …” 

“But?”

“But you ran out of there so fast. I was worried. I know you don’t like cramped spaces.” 

Thomas taps his pinky against the railing. “I’m okay. Just needed some air.”

Newt nods. “Plenty of that out here,” he says, leaning to bump his shoulder against Thomas’. 

Thomas laughs. “Shit. Yeah, there is. Mango flavored and everything.” 

“Actually, I think they’ve moved on to kiwi and guava,” Newt says, and opens his mouth wide and sticks his tongue out like he is trying to catch raindrops on it. Thomas laughs harder. “Yeah, definitely kiwi.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Thomas says. 

“Try it!”

“I’m not going to try it!” 

Newt laughs, ducking his head so that loose strands of hair fall in front of his eyes. 

There is a brief pause in the music before it begins again, so quiet that his ears almost don’t pick it up; the soft, slow piano tones of _ Clair De Lune _, until the music speeds up and the familiar opening notes of a song starts, and Thomas, uninhibited, groans. Newt’s ears perk up like a dog. He seems almost delighted at Thomas’ antipathy. 

“You don’t like this song?” he asks, knowing full well the answer. 

“It’s,” Thomas makes a face, “okay.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” Newt asks, being antagonistic. 

Thomas frowns, “Nothing’s wrong, it was … it’s just …” 

“Here,” Newt begins, and then he is reaching out for Thomas’ and taking hold of his wrists. 

“What?” Thomas yips, panicked. 

Newt insists, “Just come here,” and Thomas is being pulled in, his fingers laced between Newt’s and Newt’s hand on the small of his waist. Thomas’ freehand hovers unsurely in the air for a moment before Newt rolls his eyes and places it on his left shoulder. Then they are swaying, albeit clumsily, predominantly on Thomas’ side, but they are swaying. 

Thomas looks at his shoes and mumbles, “If you try and spin me –” 

“You don’t dance, I know, I know. Don’t worry, I promise to stick to the old two-step.” 

Newt’s palm is warm but is fingertips are as cold as always, and the spotlights shining towards the night sky occasionally catch the specs of glitter around Newt’s eyes, and Thomas finds his mouth is dry.

The panic really sets in when Newt begins to hum, and then shifts to heart-hammering when the begins to sing. 

_"Birds singing in the sycamore trees …” _

“Newt,” Thomas warns. 

_ “Dream a little dream of me. _ You really don’t like this? _ ” _

Thomas knows that if he confirms or denies the claim it will only make Newt sing louder, so he says nothing. 

Newt leads Thomas around the small balcony like it is a micro dance floor, singing as he goes, light and airy and simple notes that Thomas finds soothing, no matter what it is he is singing. “_Say nighty-night and kiss me _ _ , _ _ just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me,” _ he sings, “_While I'm alone and blue as can be__, d__ream a little dream of me.” _

A laugh bubbles out from Thomas’ throat, a little hysterical. “You’re good at this,” he says. 

“Just the old two-step.” 

“Just the old two-step.” Thomas repeats, rolling his eyes, “You and Sonya should start a band.” 

Newt pointedly ignores him and carries on. Thomas finds his eyes drooping closed, and leans his head against Newt’s shoulder, comfortably. He can feel the tenor vibrations in his throat as he sings (“_Stars fading, but I linger on, dear__. _ _ Still craving your kiss__. _ _ I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear _ _ …” _) and when Newt turns, his nose brushing the shell of Thomas’ ear and says, “You look gorgeous tonight, Tommy,” Thomas’ heart lurches, pounding in his chest.

Thomas leans back enough to be able to look Newt in the eyes. “So do you,” he says. 

“Tommy,” Newt whispers, “Tell me if I’m wrong?” 

“You’re not wrong,” Thomas says, definite, and leans forward to kiss him. 

_ Finally, finally, finally, _Thomas thinks, when Newt gives a soft hum against his lips and kisses him back in earnest, hands reaching up to cup Thomas’ jaw, Thomas’ fingers moving to tangle in Newt’s hair. Newt’s lips are surprisingly soft, enough so that they make Thomas feel self-conscious about his own weather-beaten, chapped lips, but Newt doesn’t seem to mind at all. His tongue skirting the edge of Thomas bottom lip tickles, and Thomas pushes deeper. 

There are many things Thomas likes about Newt; he likes his laugh, and the smooth tone of his voice. He likes how much he deeply cares about everyone, and he likes that he is one of those weirdos who hate sugar. He likes that he would lend himself at a moment’s notice if he is needed, and he will do so without complaint or of asking for anything in return. He likes how familiar Newt always feels, how warm and content Thomas feels when he is around him. He likes how giggly and carefree he becomes when he is high, and he likes how much he loves the cats and how much he loves his sister, and how he isn’t afraid to call Thomas out on anything, especially when he deserves it. 

He also likes kissing him. A lot, actually. 

The French doors open and reality comes barging through them like a storm with the music and sounds from the party, ripping them out of their bubble and lurching them away from one another too soon. Thomas’ heart pounds in his chest and his heart closes up in fright, and Newt pants, out of breath, now an arm’s length away from him. The space feels like a mile. 

Teresa stands in the doorway, looking flushed and out of breath herself. She does not look shocked or surprised, or anything else Thomas would have imagined her to look. Instead her eyebrows are furrowed with worry, and she looks genuinely apologetic. 

“Sorry,” she says, “I’m sorry, guys, but you need to come quick. It’s Minho.” 

Without another word they are squeezing through the door after Teresa, following her down the hall in a half jog, her heels clicking fast against the tile, dress pulled up to her knees. She leads them to a small alcove by a bathroom. The corner of the house is strangely empty given the state of the rest of it, although, Thomas bargains that would be because of all the shouting happening in it.

Harriet spins on them the moment they arrive. “Finally!” She hisses, “Where have you been? Actually, it doesn’t matter. Please do something about them. Now.” 

Minho and Gally are yelling, very loudly, mostly at each other. Brenda attempts to come between them with no avail, as Minho only pushes her out of the way the second she gets close enough to try and push the both of them away from each other, his jaw set, eyes like dark fire. Ben is at Gally’s back, attempting to do the same, one arm circling around to his chest, and is whispering in his ear. Gally acts like he isn’t even there. Rachel leans against a column a little ways away, biting her nails, face stressed, with Sonya and Aris to her left, the latter attempting to get a word in edgeways with no success. 

“What the hell is going on?” Newt cries, breaking through the sound barrier of Minho and Gally’s argument.

“Oh, good!” Gally says, “You’re back. Maybe you can talk some sense into him?” 

“What is happening?” Thomas tries. 

Gally says, “He’s trying to kill himself,” and Minho scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. A bitter ugly laugh escapes his lips and he says, “You’re so fucking dramatic. I’m not trying to kill myself –”

“Oh yeah? Them why the hell would you want to do something so stupid –?”

“It’s not stupid –”

Newt puts two fingers between his lips and blows hard. The high whistle bounces off the walls and makes everyone flinch. It also effectively shuts Minho and Gally up. 

“Can someone,” Newt begins, slow, “please explain what is happening. Before I lose it.” No one speaks, and Newt barks, “_Now!” _ loud enough that even Brenda starts. 

It hits Thomas, or maybe it hit him the moment they entered the hall, but looking at Minho, cheeks flushed with anger and shoulders pushed up to his ears, but eyes filled with a kind of defensive reservation, not really making eye contact with anyone in the group, and his blood runs cold, draining from his face. 

“Oh,” Thomas gasps out in one breath, and all eyes turn to him, “You want to watch it, don’t you?” 

Minho sighs, “Thomas …” 

“I’m sorry,” Newt holds a hand up, “Watch what?” 

“The tape,” Thomas says.

“The …?”

“His tape.” 

Newt pinches the bridge of his nose. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Oh!” Gally pipes in mock delight, “You haven’t even told them! How nice.” 

“Can you shut the fuck up, Gally? For one second?” The snap comes from Ben, who finally manages to yank his friend away. His face is red to the tips of his ears with exhaustion, dark beneath his freckles. “_Jupiter_, you are not helping.” 

“Minho,” Newt says, quiet, “Tell me this isn’t about what I think it’s about.” 

No one answers, not even Minho, so Thomas takes a deep breath and begins, “Minho’s been given the opportunity to watch his tape, but …” Thomas pauses. Something doesn’t add up. WCKD2 wouldn’t be doing this for nothing; they wouldn’t be giving Minho the option to watch his tape without some kind of exchange. 

And then it hits him. “But it’s either watch it and be accepted into the mechanic apprenticeship or don’t and they won’t let you in. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you’re considering this.” 

If it weren’t for the music flowing through the halls you might have been able to hear a pin drop. 

“Are you serious?” Gally breathes, “_That’s _ why? Why didn’t you – That isn’t a choice, Minho, that’s an ultimatum.”

“Yes,” Newt says, “Agreed. You can’t seriously be thinking of going through with this.”

“If he wants to do it then that’s his choice,” Aris says. Rachel pulls him under her arm when Gally looks like he is going to punch him. 

“Minho,” Newt starts, moving closer to him. “You know what this does to people.” 

“Not everyone,” Minho says, “Not everyone has a bad reaction, Newt, that’s what I’m trying to say! I could be fine.”

“_Could _ is a big word here, Min,” Newt says.

“So, you’re just running on the assumption that you might be okay?” Gally asks, incredulous. “_Maybe _ you won’t freak out over seeing your doubleganger on screen. You wanna know something? Fry said the exact same thing before he went in. He was so damn sure that he would be fine, and then look what happened. Look where he is now! Choosing to spend his days on a fucking mining rig hanging over molten lava, traumatized for life! You know he didn’t even speak the whole week before he left? Not once. Not to me, not to his own parents! No one! And now he’s gone and I’m never going to see him again.” 

Newt flinches, hands stuttering and clenching, and Thomas aches. 

The penny drops for Minho’s, too. The way he looks at Gally is far too open and vulnerable, and makes Thomas feel like he should look away. 

“I’m sorry,” Minho murmurs, “I forgot he was your friend.” 

“Yeah,” Gally says, sniffing. “Yeah.”

“We should go,” Teresa says, and then softer, “Give them some space.”

The group files out sans Minho and Gally. As they’re leaving Newt says to Thomas, “You knew about that.”

Guilt surges through Thomas. How can he explain that he hadn’t thought it would be an issue? That since Minho hadn’t mentioned it in a while, he just assumed everything was alright? 

“Newt,” he begins. 

“Actually, no,” Newt says, “It’s okay. It wasn’t your place to say anything. If Minho wanted to talk, he would have talked, and it sounds to me like he had his mind made up.” He frowns. “Let’s hope he changes it.” 

“It will be okay,” Thomas says. Newt hums softly and runs his hand through his hair, which has come loose from its bounds (Thomas’ doing, he realizes with a blush). 

“Always the optimist,” Newt sighs, and Thomas frowns and begins to deny the statement before Newt surprises him by threading his fingers in with his. “What do you think our chances are of finding another empty balcony are?”

Thomas’ mouth grows dry just thinking about it, and he manages to stutter out, “I feel optimistic about it.” 

Newt chuckles under his breath and pulls Thomas into another hallway. Newt seems to know where he is going more than Thomas, having navigated the halls countless times, and for a while Thomas _ is _ positive they will find an empty balcony or at least hopes that they will. But, by the time they reach their fifth or sixth failed attempt at securing an empty one, Thomas is ready to settle for some drapery, perhaps a conveniently placed fern. Just as long as he gets to kiss Newt again, and again, and again.

“This is impossible,” Newt says when they return to the main room, “There isn’t one square inch of this place that’s empty.” 

“We can just go?” Thomas suggests, and Newt stops. 

“Really? What about networking?” 

Thomas shoves him on the arm, hard. Newt laughs when he teeters off-kilter, but comes back fast and as he was. He’d kiss him again here, now, but something holds Thomas back. He is just about to suggest calling for a car when a voice calls out, “Isaac!” and they turn to see Newt’s father weaving through the crowd toward them. 

“Dad,” Newt starts, and drops Thomas’ hand. 

His dad huffs when he reaches them, looking like he’s been searching the entire house for his son. “There you are, I’ve been looking all over! I – oh, hello, Thomas, how are you? Son, you need to come with me, there are some people I’d like you to meet.”

Newt grows very stiff. 

“Can we do this another time?” 

Newt’s dad frowns. “Another time? Why? No, now is the perfect opportunity.”

Thomas begins, “Who –?” but Newt carries on over him. 

“Dad, not tonight, please. I don’t feel well.”

“Why don’t you feel well? What’s wrong?”

“I’m … the prawns. I think. They aren’t good. I just want to go home.” 

“It will only take a few minutes,” his father insists. 

Thomas, confused, asks, “What will only take a few minutes?” 

“Well, they’re here, of course,” Newt’s dad tells Thomas, “The ambassadors from Ganymede. Newt, they are so impressed with your application for the medical program, they can’t wait to meet you.” 

The ground beneath Thomas’ feet shifts, and everything becomes very still and very clear. 

“Application? Ganymede?” The words sound foreign to Thomas’ ears. He is speaking but it does not sound like his voice. 

Newt’s dad sounds just as lost as Thomas feels. Newt’s eyes are shut. 

“The internship next year,” he says, staring between Thomas and Newt expectantly, “Didn’t he tell you?” 

The world crumbles a little more. “No. He didn’t.”

Newt’s father looks at him with disappointment in his eyes. Thomas pulls at the cuffs of his sleeves, feeling too hot in the large room with hundreds of bodies milling and crowding and dancing all around him. 

“I think I’d better go,” Thomas says to the floor. “Goodnight, Peter, I’ll tell dad you say hi.”

Making his way to the door, Thomas hears a call of his name and ignores it. He hears it again when he is through the wide front doors, and then again when he is halfway down the stairs, growing louder. Newt catches up to him when he reaches the water fountain in the center of the driveway and grabs his arm to stop him, pulling him back so hard they both nearly trip. Thomas roughly shakes him off. 

“Tommy –” 

“Ganymede?”

“I was going to tell you,” Newt insists. 

Thomas wants to laugh. “Yeah? When? On the phone from the shuttle as you’re taking off?”

Newt is shaking his head. “No! Look, I swear I was going to say something, I just couldn’t find the right time. I know that isn’t an excuse but it’s true.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It isn’t an excuse.” Thomas’ entire body shakes. “Literally any time would have been great. Anytime before tonight, before _ that _.” 

He throws out an arm to gesture to the house’s second story, to the balconies lining the stone front.

Newt has gone pale, and his expression is pleading. “I know. I know, Tommy, it –”

“Oh, you _ know _, do you? I thought I was crazy. All those times you’d flirt and look at me like you wanted to – and then you’d pull back and pretend nothing happened? I thought I was just delusional, I thought I was making it all up in my head, Newt.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“How long have you known you were going to leave?” he asks, “You just let me kiss you knowing nothing would come of it?” 

“It isn’t like that!” Newt cries. They’re drawing heads, colourful blurs in the corners of Thomas’ vision, “Tommy, please, just let me explain.”

Thomas scoffs. “Explain what? Your dad did all the explaining for you.”

“Thomas, _ please_.”

“You have executives to meet, Newt, don’t let me hold you back.”

Newt straightens his back, the defence settling in. “You’re being unfair.”

“_I’m _ being unfair?”

“You think I want this?” Newt spits, “You think I want to leave here? Fly two moons away for a job I don’t even care about? I don’t!” 

“I don’t think you know what you want, Newt!” Thomas shouts. 

Newt steps back like he’s been slapped. Thomas instantly regrets the words as soon as the hurt registers on Newt face, but another part of him, stubborn and filled with a spiteful prerequisite for self-destruction, remains stoic. 

“And you do?” Newt asks, jaw set. 

Thomas turns on his heels and walks away. Newt does not follow. 

Thomas calls for a car past the front gate, waiting beside a cactus draped in fairy lights and wearing a hot pink cowboy hat. The car picks him up after fifteen minutes, it’s headlights bright as it pulls up at his feet, dust particles dancing in the cool white light. Thomas climbs into the back seat and gives the driver his address, who in turn politely asks him how his night was. Thomas does not answer and instead rests his head against the window, counting the houses as they pass by. 

The car pulls up at his house. Thomas pays the driver and makes it three steps in through the front door before the cats attack him for love (Barnacle) and food (Calypso). Thomas feeds them both, leaves their favourite treats in the bottom of their bowls as a surprise, and later buries himself under the covers of his bed, face pressed into Barnacle’s fur, trying not to cry. 

His phone vibrates against the nightstand all day, a chorus of bees flying above his head, stinging his skin with every buzz. Thomas ignores it. 

The next day, when he gets up to pee and eat a banana Minho knocks on the front door. Thomas opens it to find him in running clothes, the earphones that hang around his neck play music in a faint mumble. He does not say a word but holds out a water bottle to Thomas, expectant, and says, “Come on. We’re going running.” 

Minho allows Thomas the small favour of changing his pyjama shirt, soiled with sweat, into a slightly cleaner one hanging off the back of the couch before he drags him out the door, drawstring pants and all, shoes barely on his feet. 

Thomas had quit track a year earlier because of his lungs, for the exact reason that he reenacts for Minho ten minutes into their jog around the neighbourhood, when he has to stop because it feels as if his lungs will burn up inside of his chest and leak out through whatever available orifice. After the third time Thomas has to stop to recover – Minho looking like he’s barely broken a sweat – he joins Thomas on the curb facing a corner street, which leads to another corner, that leads to another and another. 

He hands Thomas the spare water bottle and tells him to drink slowly, which he does not do, and ends up choking on stray droplets in his throat. Minho pats him hard on the back and when Thomas is done they sit in silence, listening to the sound of the birds that fly in perfect loops above their heads.

Minho begins to say his name and the exact moment Thomas says, “Minho, listen –” and then it is an awkward tumble of half words and cut off sounds as the two of them try and tell the other to go first. 

Minho sighs when they are done, and says, “Look, I’m sorry about the night of the Gala. Really turned it into a theatre show, huh?”

Thomas shakes his head. “No, I. It’s okay. I’m sorry, too,” he says, “for just taking off.”

Minho’s eyebrows pinch together. “You left early? I didn’t even notice. I don’t mean that I _ didn’t _ notice,” he rushes to clarify, “I just had a lot on my mind. Don’t really know who left when, and how.”

Thomas picks at a loose thread in his pyjama pants and leans forward on his knees. “So,” he says, biting at the corner of his bottom lip, “What, uh, what did you …?”

Minho lets out a quick huff of breath and says, “I’m not gonna do it. I’m not gonna watch it.” 

Thomas sits up. “Oh,” he says, “But what about –?

“The apprenticeship?” 

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs. “There will be other opportunities. Better ones. I just have to be patient and wait for them. But they’ll come.”

Thomas nods. “And did you come to this moment of clarity all on your own?”

“Jupiter, no, Gally spent all day yesterday just –” Minho cuts himself off. Thomas waits patiently until Minho is ready to continue. “I wanted to know about him, I guess. Find out who he was before, well, before me. I think that’s what it was most of all.”

“I get it. I’m curious about him, too,” Thomas says. “Who he was, what he was like. What his name was. I think we all are. But I mean what I said before. I really wouldn’t know what I would do if I was given the chance to watch it.”

Thinking about it is exhausting. It is like trying to solve the most difficult jigsaw puzzle in the universe, and the answer in the center has no guarantee of being the right one. 

“Are you happy? With your decision, I mean?”

Minho shrugs. “I don’t know if I’m happy with it, but … I know it’s the right one. And Gally’s sort of made me realise I don’t need to see it to carry on being me.”

Thomas wants to smile like a fool but restrains it into a small grin, for Minho’s sake. “Smart guy,” he says.

The corner of Minho’s mouth twitches. “Little bit.”

“So that’s a thing, huh?”

“Yep.”

“How long has it _ been _ a thing?” 

Minho squints at a stop sign across the road. “Would you believe me if I said I don’t know?”

Thomas thinks about it for a moment, and then decides, “Actually yeah, I think I would.”

Minho shoves Thomas with his shoulder but is laughing under his breath. Thomas bites the inside of his cheek and fights the urge to grin like an idiot. Later, when they are back at Minho’s house blowing comically designed space alien’s heads off with laser shooters, Thomas mashes buttons, skipping around the comfortable conversation like the rings of a jump rope, and does not mention Newt once even though he knows it would be unordinary to do so. Minho, reclined into a deep sunk bean bag, does not bring the subject ups.

–

Calypso falls ill that night.

Thomas wakes to the sound of a cat mewling very loud into his ear, and a mouthful of said cat’s tail. He attempts to bat the little black cat away and roll over into the pillow with no prevail, and the meows only intensify once Thomas buries his face into the pillow. It is only when Barnacle begins to scratch that he groans and flips over, crying, “Barnacle, _ what? _ What do you want?” 

Barnacle mewls loudly and bats at his nose with one small, sharp paw. Thomas hisses and sits up, the room tilting off-kilter for a moment before the blood realigns itself in his head. One eye remains closed. 

“Cat,” Thomas whines, “It’s 10 PM. Whatever it is, can it wait ‘til morning?”

The cat does not look like it can wait until the morning, and mewls impenitently at Thomas once again before swinging its little paw at Thomas’ knee and swiping him with its obnoxiously sharp claws. Thomas yelps and goes to bat her away when she dodges by jumping off the bed and trotting out of the room. Thomas watches as Barnacle stops, meows into the hallway, comes back and sticks her head through the gap in the door and meows once again. 

Finally sensing something is wrong, Thomas pushes the covers off his legs and swings out to follow Barnacle through the house. 

Thomas dotes at her the entire time, asking, _ What is it, girl? _ like he’s expecting her to be able to answer until they reach the back room where Calypso’s bed lives, and, by extension, her. Thomas can see that something is wrong the second he lays eyes on her – curled into her bed, looking smaller than she is with her head tucked near her paws and her tail wrapped around to tie her in and away from the world. With her fur looking dull and her eyes welling up with tears in the corners she looks feeble, and Thomas’ throat seals up with cement. 

He is on his knees in front of her in an instant, pressing a hand gently between her ears which she does not try and snap away, and this is the most worrying thing of all. The skin beneath her spotty fur is dry and hot, and when Thomas asks her what’s wrong, she gives a small, tired chirrup in response. 

Thomas wastes no time in scooping Calypso up; arms beneath her legs and supporting her against his chest as she lays her head on his shoulder, and rushes out of the house with keys between his teeth, phone clutched in a white-knuckled fist. Thomas calls ahead to let the 24-hour animal hospital know they’re coming and drives as fast as he is allowed, glancing anxiously at Calypso’s bundled form in the back seat. 

Finally, after too many red lights that make Thomas grind his teeth and drum his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, they make it to the mall. The vet is ready for them when Thomas bursts through the doors, breathing heavily with a 59 pound wildcat in his arms. They immediately take her from him and begin to throw question after question Thomas’ way (_How long has she been this way? When did you notice her first start to look ill? Have you noticed any odd behavior or change in diet? _) 

It is a flurry of chaos and then nothing when everyone disappears in the back room, leaving Thomas alone. He collapses back into a plastic chair in the waiting room and works at regaining his breath. It doesn’t work, so Thomas entertains himself by pacing around the empty reception until one of the nurses comes back out. 

Thomas rushes forward and demands, “How is she?” before the nurse has a chance to get a word out. 

She holds up her palms and says, slowly, “She’s still being treated right now but she’s going to be perfectly fine.” 

“Okay,” Thomas breathes, a weight dropping off his shoulders, “What happened?” 

The nurse leads Thomas back over to the chairs and sits him down, taking the one beside him. “The doctor thinks she might have potentially eaten something that could have affected her.” 

Thomas says, “You mean she ate something poisonous,” and sees the nurse try and conceal a frown. 

“It’s,” She searches for words, “Likely at this point that, yes, she did, but we won’t know exactly what it is until the doctor is finished with the tests. We’re just waiting for the X-Rays to develop and then we’ll have a better idea. It might be a good idea for her to stay here for the night so we can keep an eye on her, as well.” 

Thomas bites the inside of his cheek. “Can I see her?” 

The nurse gives him a sympathetic look, her eyebrows pinching together. “Unfortunately, not at this stage. But soon. I know it can be quite distressing when your animal is sick or injured, but I just want to assure you that she’s getting the best –”

“She’s my mom’s,” Thomas says. 

“Sorry?”

“She’s my mom’s cat. She’s not here at the moment, and if anything happened to Calypso she’d be devastated, and I –”

“Nothing is going to happen, Thomas,” the nurse says, “She is going to be perfectly fine after some treatment and some rest. It’s a very good thing that you found her when you did.” 

The nurse gives him some information about what is and isn’t poisonous to leopards, but Thomas tunes out for most of it until she hands him a brochure from one of the racks, gives him a warm and encouraging smile, and leaves. Afterward, the silence of the waiting room becomes too loud and Thomas wanders outside, stomach leading him towards the vending machine. He taps his phone and buys 3 chocolate bars to anxiously nibble on when he hears his name called and turns to find Newt standing a little ways behind him with a bag of cucumbers in one hand, and a cola candy stick in the other. 

Neither of them says anything, and both remain standing in the middle of an empty mall, just gawking at each other like a pair of wild animals caught in a staredown. Thomas takes in Newt’s jeans and T-shirt and feels conscious about his own pinstriped pyjama pants and odd flip flips that sit on the wrong foot. 

“What are you doing here?” They both ask at the same time. There is no awkward fumble of _ You go. No, you go_, and Thomas just leans back against the machine and waits until Newt clears his throat and speaks first.

“I couldn’t sleep, and –” Newt lifts up the bag of cucumbers, and mutters, “We were out.” 

Thomas doesn’t comment on the candy stick.

“You?”

“Calypso’s sick.”

“What?”

“The vet thinks she ate something poisonous.”

“Shit, is she okay?” 

Thomas’ chest swells at the deep concern in Newt’s voice, but fights to remains apathetic. “She will be.” 

“Have you seen her, yet?”

“She’s asleep,” Thomas says, “No. They won’t let me see her yet.”

“Do you,” Newt glances around. At what, Thomas doesn’t know. “Do you want me to stay or, I don’t know, do you need anything?” 

“No, I don’t need anything from you.” 

Newt visibly flinches. 

“Tommy,” he begins, but Thomas kicks off the vending machine and starts back towards the vet. 

“I’m sorry, Newt, but I can’t right now,” he says and walks back to the animal hospital before Newt can say anything else.

He makes it through one and a half chocolate bars before the vet comes out of the back room and tells Thomas that, first, his cat will be perfectly fine, and he can see her. 

Thomas keeps his footsteps light when he enters the room. The lights are purposefully dim, and Calypso rests in the middle of a padded bench, head on her paws and blinking slowly. There is a white patch on her left shoulder joint where he assumes they drew blood from. Thomas wheels over a stool from the desk by the wall and sits down in front of her, resting his chin on the bench, his nose inches away from hers. 

“Hey, girl,” he whispers, “How’re you feeling?”

Calypso blinks sleepily in response, puffing air out through her nose. 

“You really scared me,” he says. “And Barnacle. Shame on you, you know she’s delicate. What did you eat?”

Calypso gives him a trifling look. Thomas shrugs. 

“It’s okay, the doctors will tell me. I’m keeping an eye on you for now on, got it?”

Calypso’s eyes are big when she leans forward and licks a stripe up Thomas’ nose and forehead, making the baby hairs on his hairline stand vertical. Thomas reaches up to scratch between her ears. She closes her eyes and purrs, like a kitten. She was tiny when his mother first brought her home, barely any bigger than Barnacle is now. She acted like she owned the place then, too, but the most distinct feature that Thomas remembers was her eyes. They were huge, so much larger than they had any right to be, and she loved her head scratches then, too. 

Thomas watches her fall asleep as he rubs behind her ears, and whispers, “I love you, too, killer.” 

–

Calypso didn’t eat a plant, or a rock, or a piece of metal or anything else that Thomas had been imagining, but something so much worse. 

When the doctors tell him of a small narcotic pill barely suitable for humans, and, “Where on the moon would she have even _ gotten _ this from?” the corners of Thomas’ vision turn black and he almost falls to the floor. 

His hands shake the entire ride home, and this time it is Calypso’s turn to watch him with concern from the passenger’s seat, where she insisted on sitting. He unlocks the door and watches her strut inside the house like nothing ever happened, and leaves the cats to do their shoulder-rubbing and nuzzling and runs up to his room two stairs at a time. The small, jewel-encrusted tin is exactly where he left it at the bottom of his desk drawer, and Thomas has absolutely no qualms or hesitations when he throws it’s contents into the toilet and presses the flush, watching them swirl away into nothing. 

Afterward, Thomas falls to his knees and empties his stomach into the bowl after them.

Calypso wants to sleep in his bed that night and Thomas lets her. With the leopard on one side of the bed and the tiny black cat on the other, Thomas remains trapped between the heat of their bodies in the middle of his own bed. 

He does not sleep that night but listens to the animals as they do, soundly, his fingers pressed into the ridges between his ribs and breathing in, out, in and out again. 

–

The crystal is an anxious amber-grey when Thomas gets a call from Newt the next night. 

Thomas is lying on the couch with the crystal pressed against his lips, watching the colours dance when his phone buzzes obnoxiously on the coffee table and, without looking at the caller ID, reaches over to answer it. 

“Hello?”

Newt’s voice comes in nervous inflections on the other end. “Hey, Tommy, listen ...”

Thomas sits up so fast it makes his head spin. The cats squint at him curiously from the other couch. The crystal rolls off the couch and bounces on the plush carpet. “Newt?”

The sound of his voice on the other end gives him goosebumps, a startling thrill that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight. Thomas hates him for it.

“Look, Tommy, can you do me a favour? It’s starting to rain out here.” 

“Out –” Thomas frowns. “Out where?” 

“Come to the back,” Newt says, and like a mindless zombie, Thomas does and finds Newt standing on the back patio, on the other side of the glass. He offers a small wave and Thomas feels his brain break. 

“The wind is picking up and it’s getting kind of cold out here, man.” 

“Newt, what in Jupiter’s name are you doing?”

“I knew you wouldn’t answer my texts or calls,” he says, and it is a surreal experience to hear Newt’s voice in his ear while watching his lips move on the other side of the sliding door, mute. “So, I thought I’d just come over and …”

“And?” 

“And I didn’t know if you’d answer the door, either.”

“So, what was the plan?”

Newt sighs in his ear. “Not very well thought out, apparently. Usually that’s your territory, so I’m not used to – no, wait come back! I’m sorry!”

Thomas turns back around on the balls of his feet, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. 

“I’m sorry, Tommy. I really am. Can you just let me in so we can talk?” 

“So you can insult me some more?” 

Newt groans and presses his forehead against the glass. Thomas hears the faint thud both in reality and through the phone. He sounds defeated when he says, “I’m not insulting you, and I never meant to hurt you. I promise. Thomas, please, it’s been four days and I miss you.”

A piece of Thomas’ resolve cracks. He wants to open the door and let Newt inside. He also wants to pick up the remote control and shut the curtains over Newt’s big, pleading eyes, and pretend he isn’t there. 

The first half wins out when Thomas finds himself reaching for the remote not to draw the curtains but the unlock the door. Newt shakes his hair out like a dog when he is inside, swearing under his breath. “It’s raining sideways out there,” he says, a moment before a sharp flash of lightning appears and thunder fills the silence of the night straight after. 

The cats appear around the corner, then, and Newt perks up at the sight of Calypso, who brushes herself against Thomas’ thigh, and glares at Newt judgementally like she knows everything that is going on. Newt backs down.

Maybe she does. Thomas won’t pretend to understand animals.

Thomas clicks his fingers at her and says, “It’s alright, girl. Go play,” and, amazingly, she does. Newt looks stunned, watching her leave. Thomas folds his arms over his chest and says, “Go ahead.” 

Newt does: “I wanted to tell you the moment I found out my dad signed me up for this program in Ganymede. _ He _ signed me up, Tommy, not me.”

“And why didn’t you? Tell me?”

“Because I thought it was nothing. I was going to text you and Minho so we could all laugh about it together but then he kept talking about it more and more and I realised it was serious. And then I thought I could get out of it if I found something here, which is where that whole thing with Adam came in, but well.”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. 

“I didn’t want to upset you.” 

Thomas grips the fabric of his shirt, and breathes, “Why?”

Newt gives him a pained look. “You know why,” he says, “I like you, Tommy, a lot. I have for a very long time.”

The words he’s been waiting to hear for years float into the air like bubbles, and instead of jumping and grasping for them like an excited child Thomas only watches them hit the top of the ceiling and pop. “Have you?”

Newt steps forward. “Yes.”

“You never said anything.” 

“Neither did you.” 

“Because I thought you weren’t interested.” 

“How could you think that?”

“You –” Thomas takes a deep breath, levelling himself, “We’ve been over this. I take a step forward you take one back. You take one step forward and then you also take two steps back, Newt, you drive me insane! Did you know that?”

“You mentioned. Look,” Newt wipes a hand down his face, and for the first time Thomas notices the circles below his eyes, “I’ve been a chicken when it comes to you, I’ll admit that much, but can you blame me? Thomas, you – you had a girlfriend! Teresa, who is gorgeous and who you’re still so close with. I mean, what was I supposed to think?” 

Thomas sighs through his nose and says, for the thousandth time, “Me and Teresa are never going to happen again.”

“I know that now. I know what you two have is special and I know it’s different than what you had before. I know that, but … it was hard seeing you together when you were together, and just the possibility of ‘maybe’ terrified me. I didn’t know if I could handle that again, so I backed off rather than take a risk.” 

Thomas feels his brain short circuit at this information, and he desperately pushes reboot. “Wait, wait.” He holds a hand up, “You liked me since then?” 

Newt looks like he has a headache. “I’ve liked you since before then, you bloody teaspoon. You are the bane of my existence.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Romantic.” 

“You get what you give, Tommy.” 

A faintly hysterical laugh bubbles out from Thomas’ throat and surprises them both. Thomas presses his face into his hands and groans at his own stupidity – at both of theirs. He reaches forward and grips the front of Newt’s shirt in a tight fist. Newt gives a soft gasp and Thomas’ insides turn to mush. 

“Newt, I don’t …” Thomas shakes his head. _ How much time we’ve wasted. _ “I don’t want to do this if you’re just going to leave in a few months.”

His chest is warm beneath Thomas’ fist, and when he glances up he finds Newt looking at him as he has the night on the balcony – open and honest and a little bit afraid, but now with more hope than before. 

“I don’t _ not _ want to do this, if I go,” he says. _ And spend the rest of my life wondering_, goes unsaid. 

Just like that, all of the resolve Thomas had been desperately holding on to dissolves beneath his fingertips, and he pulls Newt in by his shirt. He tastes just like Thomas remembers from the night on the balcony, lips just as soft as before. Thomas tugs at his shoulders and Newt’s hands grip his waist and before he even realises he’s doing it, Thomas tugs Newt through the hall and towards the stairs until they are both tripping over their feet and landing on the hardwood. Newt gasps when he falls with Thomas on top of him, soon morphing into a laugh which Thomas finds himself mimicking.

“Ow,” Newt groans, rubbing the back of his head. 

Thomas drops his forehead against Newt’s collarbone, shoulders quaking. “Sorry.” 

“No, it’s –” Newt waves a hand. Thomas kisses him again, and again, and again until they’re both gasping and Newt is tilting his chin away. Thomas trails open-mouthed kisses down his jaw, the curve of his ear and down to his neck before Newt gasps his name, the sound of it ripping from his lungs with a force. 

“Tommy, wait.”

“What?”

“Tommy.”

“_What? _”

“Just.” He pushes Thomas back far enough to be able to look him in the face. Newt’s red beneath his freckles, a rosy flush on his cheeks that spreads down his neck to his chest and possibly further, Thomas thinks, feeling mad with want. “Just hang on.” 

“I’m hanging,” Thomas says. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, for starters I have a step digging into my spine, and that’s not exactly sexy for me. Is it sexy for you?”

“I don’t know, let’s find out,” Thomas says, and cups his face and kisses him again. Newt laughs against his lips, a low, drawn-out titter he’s never heard before and makes him curious.

Newt winces again and Thomas tugs the hem of Newt’s shirt out of his jeans to slip his fingers under. Newt wriggles and gasps, and Thomas feels a strange surge of self-satisfaction course through his system. This time when he pushes Thomas way to arm’s length, he says, “Okay, okay. Not here. Come on.” 

Thomas allows Newt to take his hand and lead him towards his own bedroom. Once they’re inside with the door closed firmly behind them, Newt takes a long look around the room and says, “Wow, I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“It looks exactly the same.”

“I know, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen it.”

“It’s been four days, Newt.”

“Actually,” Newt says, spinning back around and pulling Thomas in by the belt loops of his jeans, “it’s been two weeks, Thomas.” 

“Think about my bedroom often, do you?”

Newt’s eyelids flutter when he says, “Too much.” 

Thomas brings their lips together, fast and desperate, and Newt is tugging at the collar of Thomas’ shirt just the same. “How often?” Thomas asks, when he feels the edge of the mattress hit the back of his knees. 

“Too much,” Newt says, running his hands up Thomas’ sides and making him shiver, softly biting at the skin underneath his jaw. 

“How much?” Thomas asks, when he crawls back onto the bed, shirt off, buckle undone, Newt’s hips beneath the skin of his palms, pinkie fingers dipping under the waistband of his underwear, making him shiver. 

“A lot, Tommy.” Newt kisses his jaw. “Way too much.” Newt kisses his neck. “With you in it.” He kisses his lips, cheek, back to his neck. “A lot.” Collarbone. “A lot.” The soft skin between his shoulder and neck. “A lot.” 

Thomas falls back and takes Newt with him. 

“With you in it, too?” he finds himself asking, his head a mess, roof spinning, stars forming their own galaxies above his head. 

“Of course, with me in it,” Newt laughs. Thomas laughs, too, until Newt tugs his jeans down his thighs and touches him, and Thomas almost chokes on a gasp. “Have you?”

Thomas nods, swallowing hard. Newt’s head falls on to his shoulder, breath coming out in quick pants. 

“How much?”

“Too much?”

Newt laughs again. “With me in it?”

Thomas writhes, a moan escaping his lips. He nods fervently. “With you. Always you. So much.” Newt grips him tighter and Thomas thinks he might cry. “Always.”

“Did you –” Newt gasps. His lips brush against Thomas’ skin as he talks, “Did you imagine this?” 

“Always.” 

“_Fuck_, Thomas.” Newt groans, presses his face pressed into Thomas’ hair. “You’re so beautiful.” 

Thomas comes harder than he ever has in his life, his nails leaving crescent moons in Newt’s skin.

Newt’s body is a warm, solid weight against his own that Thomas imagines he could hide inside and stay forever. He presses his face into the hair at the nape of Newt’s neck and sighs, and when Newt hums sleepily in response and half-turns in Thomas’ arms, noses brushing against cheek, his sigh flutters the soft hairs on Newt’s forehead. 

“Hi,” Newt says, eyes barely open, lashes fanning across his cheeks like sunflower petals. 

“Hey,” Thomas whispers back, nudging his jaw, thumb idly tracing the fabric of Newt’s briefs at his hip. Newt hums in appreciation. 

Thomas kisses him; the soft skin between Newt’s nose and cheek, and feels the tickle of Newt’s lashes in the corner of his eye. Newt turns his head and captures Thomas’ lips properly, soft and lazy, and this is how they remain for a while. 

The rose-tinted dream state is the primary reason Thomas doesn’t hear the voices coming from downstairs until they become angry. The distinct tone and familiarity is a thing of nightmares when it is mixed in with the comfortable, lucid dream cavern Thomas has built around them with satin and silk. 

He is suddenly very, very awake, and Newt is very, very confused. 

“Shit.”

“Wha’?”

“Shit, _ shit_.” 

“_What? _ Tommy, what –?”

“They’re back early,” Thomas says, rising to his elbows, panic settling in. “They were meant to be gone for another day, _ fuck_.” 

Newt sits up and looks toward to door as if he expects someone to burst through it and start screaming. The sheet slips off his shoulder and pools at his waist. “Fuck,” he agrees. 

“It’s a mess down there,” Thomas moans into his hands, “I haven’t had a chance to clean up. That was meant to be today. I was going to scrub the place clean, top to bottom.”

“It’s …” Newt begins, and even without seeing his face Thomas can imagine him flipping through a catalogue of various lies for Thomas’ benefit. “Not too bad?”

It is a nightmare by the sparkling, crystal clean standard his mother usually keeps the house in, and Newt knows it. But he is a sweetheart for trying. 

Thomas falls back on to the pillows and sighs, deep. He had plans for this morning, too. Plans that consisted of finding out how many orgasms he can get out of Newt before breakfast. Now, Thomas has all of five minutes to make an appearance before his parents start knocking down the door. 

“You have to go.”

Newt nods, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. I’d hide you, but this might get ugly.”

“Under the bed or in the closet?” Newt asks, grinning.

Thomas shoves him on the shoulder but ends up kissing the spot right after. They dress quickly, and afterwards, Thomas leads Newt down the stairs and around to the back and watches him slip through a sliver in the sliding glass door he entered through last night. He offers Thomas an encouraging smile, squeezing his hand in quiet support, before letting go and disappearing around the large stone wall. 

_ Now or never, _ Thomas thinks, and takes one last deep breath to steady himself before wandering into the front living room where his mother and father are standing, in various states of emotional overload. 

“… I just can’t believe –” his dad is saying, “Where is – oh! _ There_. Man of the hour, Thomas, hello. How are you? How’s life treating you? Good? Yeah, we can tell by the state of the place.” 

Thomas bites down a wince. His father stands with one hand on his hip and the other in the air like it’s meant to be gesturing to something specific but has gotten so caught up in a number of other things that it’s forgotten what. Mom stands beside him, sunglasses on her head and bags at her feet, staring at The Wall, and Thomas almost wishes he pretended he wasn’t home. 

“Listen, I can explain.”

“Explain? Yes, that would be nice, but first,” his dad walks over to the front door, still wide open, and points to the creamy mustang in perfect view, “Can you go over why in Jupiter’s name there is a _ screwdriver _ jabbed into my car like you’re performing medieval surgery, Thomas? Because I genuinely can’t wait to hear it.”

A number of thoughts pass through the busy thoroughfare of Thomas’ mind, but as fate would have it the first to make it out is: “You guys are home early.” 

“Yeah,” his mom says, “Someone spilled juice all over the main console at the last exhibit and caused the whole thing to malfunction. They sent us home early. Thomas, there are paint splatters everywhere! How many times did you paint this wall?”

Thomas cringes, muttering, “Honestly, I can’t answer that question.” 

They go off, like two birds twittering at each other across two trees. 

“Leaving was a mistake, obviously. I told you we should have brought him with us.”

“Did you expect him to stay put?”

“No, but I figured being out of the house the whole time meant the house would remain as it were. _ A screwdriver! _ Where did you even –?” 

“Did you vacuum once? Dust? Clean? At all? One press of a button –”

Thomas blanches. “I have. I did. I was going to, really, but then Calypso got sick, and –”

His mother’s head snaps up. “What?”

“She – Yeah, she’s fine, mom, she’s asleep.” 

His mother gasps, and without another word she rushes off, bare feet padding against the tile, thankfully not waiting around for an explanation. This leaves Thomas alone in the room with his father, who’s expression is bridging a fine line between disappointment and Thoughts Of Strangulation. 

“Dad,” he tries, but his dad cuts him off with the raise of a hand. 

“No,” he says, “I change my mind. I don’t want to hear it right now. Go to your room, please. Now, Thomas, I mean it.”

Thomas makes it as far as the top landing of the staircase before his parents’ voices cause him to pause once again. Through the balustrades Thomas sees his mother re-enter the room with Calypso bouncing around her knees like an excited kitten, Barnacle trotting behind them. 

"I can't believe this," his dad is muttering.

"Yeah, you said."

"You're not the least bit mad?"

"Of course I'm mad!" 

Their voices drop into a hush, as they usually do when they don't want him to hear them arguing. After a minute his mother's voice fades back in, and she is saying, "I – look, I didn’t think he’d stay put either, but …”

“Stealing the car? He’s lucky he wasn’t arrested, driving it around like that!”

Thomas winces. 

“His birthday is in three days, Erin, what are we supposed to do? Keep him grounded until then, and then what?"

"We could keep him seventeen for a bit longer."

All the air drains from the room. Thomas’ blood turns cold and his fingertips and toes begin to tingle, a ringing building in his ears. The silence stretches on downstairs between his parents until a moment later, when his mother says, “Really? You would do that to our boy?” 

Thomas stumbles down the hall into his room and shuts the door firmly, not wanting to hear anymore. 

Trials and tribulations of being a seventeen-year-old boy on the cusp of adulthood battling the inner turmoil of Finding Oneself while looking towards the future, and falling in deep love aside, Thomas, despite copious evidence, is not an idiot. 

The evidence in question and the epiphany that the current situation has brought upon him go hand in hand as Thomas realises that, yes, he has made some mistakes over the past three weeks that were a. reckless and against his better judgment – as a seventeen-year-old boy on the cusp of adulthood, he should have known better – and b. just plain stupid. The list is incriminating.

He has:

  1. Stolen the car, and proceeded to continuously drive around with it hot-wired for 3 weeks, of which he could have been pulled over for and charged if caught.
  2. Repeatedly left the house while grounded, disobeying his parents. Mild at best but still shameful.
  3. Broke into the ice tours with Newt. They potentially have surveillance footage that could bite him in the ass at any moment. 
  4. Took illegal narcotics.
  5. Almost killed an animal with the illegal narcotics.
  6. Continued to drink alcohol and take said narcotics while on a very strong medication, which isn’t totally illegal but he should have known better, also, in hindsight. 
  7. Almost caused a scene at an important event he was meant to be making nice and small talking with executives like his father wanted him to.
  8. Instigated a bar brawl.
  9. Instigated a bar brawl while on illegal narcotics, drunk off his ass, and taking a very strong medication with a bright and bold warning label against doing so. 

He is also more than aware that one of the punishments of committing such crimes, as a minor, is a rewinding. Thomas has never known anyone personally who has been penalized this way, but Aris once mentioned a girl from his old school on Io, who was rewound three times for continuously breaking the law. 

His hands begin searching his pockets for the crystal on autopilot, and Thomas realises it is still somewhere in the living room after he’d dropped it last night. 

A knock raps against his bedroom door before the panic can begin to unpack its bags and settle in. Clearing his throat, Thomas says, “It’s open!” 

His mother gingerly opens the door. First her hand appears on the door, nails painted a cheery red as usual, then the swoop of her hair, falling over her shoulder in soft waves, and then her face, one hazel eye and then two, and mouth not quite pulled into a smile but neither a frown, also. 

Thomas sits on his bed, the defeat washing over his shoulders almost hitting him by surprise. “Before you say anything,” Thomas begins, “I just want to tell you I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been an angel these past few weeks and done almost nothing that you asked me to do, and for that I really am sorry. And I understand,” he says, “if you want to do it.” 

His mother frowns, shutting the door with her hip, arms crossed. “Do …?”

Thomas squares his shoulders. “Rewind me.” 

She frowns deeply at her son for a moment, the kind of look where the person wearing it is wondering how you could be so stupid. She straightens and waves a hand, “Oh, relax, no one’s getting rewound. Your father’s just upset.” 

“He sounded pretty serious,” Thomas mutters, picking at a fingernail. 

“You did steal his car, honey. You know how much he loves that thing. And you know how I feel about rewindings. Honestly,” Amelia sighs when she falls on to the bed beside her son, sounding exhausted, “How could you even think we’d ever be like those people?” She whispers, “_ Jupiter _, that poor girl.” 

_ He still said it, _ Thomas thinks, but like he’s read his mind, his mom says, “Your father says things he doesn’t mean when he’s angry. He’s impulsive, and can be volatile like that.” She bumps Thomas’ shoulder with her own, “Sound like somebody else you know? Anyone at all? I can give hints if you’re stuck.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, I get it. We all say shit we don’t mean. Can you just give me a lecture and lock me in my room for three hours?”

His mother’s face is serious when she says, “You terrify him, did you know that? After that stunt with the private beach his biggest fear is that one day he will get a call in the middle of the night from the police telling us that you’re hurt or worse, of you’ve gotten yourself into some kind of trouble you can’t get out of. He would have brought you with us on this trip if he didn’t think you’d hate him for it.” She says, “It’s not the fact that you took the car without his permission – well, it is, but more so that you could have gotten seriously hurt driving it like that. A screwdriver? Where did you even learn to do that?” 

Guilt simmering in the pit of his stomach and making him feel squiggly, Thomas manages to mumble, “There’s so many tutorials online.” 

His mom surprises him by laughing and pulling her into her arms. “Nothing is ever boring with you, is it, Thomas? I missed you,” she whispers into his hair. “I still want to kill you a little bit, but I missed you so much.” 

Thomas sniffs and hugs her back. “I missed you guys, too.” 

“The wall, though. Can we talk about that for a minute?”

“I’d rather we didn’t.” 

“I love the colour,” she says, “I would never have gone for such a dark green, but it works so well. Good job, kid.” 

Thomas laughs under his breath. The dark, forest green had been the final choice, picked on a whim during the interim of Thomas Being Heartbroken and Mad At Newt. The shade simply titled _ Black Water _ seemed an almost perfect companion to the colours swirling inside the crystal like a witches brew of black and silver. 

“I’m glad you like it.” 

“I love it,” his mom says, “And I love you. Now come back downstairs. You look like you need a sandwich. Teenagers, I swear …”

His mom makes him a peanut butter sandwich that manages to taste better than anything Thomas could have whipped together, but not before making Thomas and his father hug.

The back of Thomas’ throat swells up when his father buries his chin in his shoulder and squeezes him tight, holding on. 

Thomas is confined to the house for the remaining days leading up to his birthday. He is surprisingly fine with it.

Thomas sits on his bed and watches his phone light up with messages, knowing exactly who they’re all from. The guilt eats away at the inner layers of his stomach and yet Thomas does not do anything to ease it. He cannot explain the panic that wells up in his chest when he thinks about last night. Where there should be butterflies fluttering around in excitement for _ What happens next _ there is only a stale, cold sensation that appears when the events replay themselves inside his head, a startling contrast to how he’d felt in the moment. 

A part of him worries that everything is ruined. Another part of him worries everything will be ruined, eventually.

Small salvation comes in the form of his mom walking into his room because she forgot to confiscate his phone, and when she takes it Thomas has to pretend to be disappointed. 

He eats dinner in silence while his parents chat over the table, occasionally poking him with questions about the last three weeks he really doesn’t want to answer. In turn, he fires back questions about the trip that will make his mom groan and his dad’s eyes light up with nerdy delight. Afterwards, when the table is clear and the dishes are in the washer, Thomas scoops up Barnacle (her they let him keep) into his arms and retires to his room. Calypso gives his hand a big, wet kiss with her large tongue as he walks past, looking rather proud of himself when he moans in disgust over the slime, shaking his hand out. 

Mary finishes texting him at 8 PM asking about his symptoms, and once Barnacle curls asleep on the spare pillow on his bed, Thomas entertains himself with spinning in his desk chair and dissociating for a solid hour and a half. 

When sleep still doesn’t come thirty minutes after that he tries reading but finds his mind is too wired to focus on the words on the page, then moves on to doodling in his sketchbook. He gets halfway through a rough sketch of Newt’s face before he realises when he is doing and drops the pencil, shutting the book. At midnight, he picks up the radio and flicks it on to his and Teresa’s channel, walking over to his window so he can see the soft blue glow of her night light through hers across the street.

Knowing she is asleep, Thomas presses the talk button and says, “Hey, Teresa. You there?” No answer. He grins to himself and says, “Ground control, this is Major Tom. Do you copy?” 

A click. Buzz of static. And then, “No.”

“You asleep?”

“Yes,” she says, “Go away.” 

“I’m bored.”

“Don’t care.” 

“Let’s play I Spy.”

“I’m going to hang up on you.”

“It’s not a phone, you can’t hang up,” Thomas says. 

“Oh? What’s that? Sorry, the line’s breaking up, I think I’m losing you.”

“Teresa?”

She pauses at the shift of tone in his voice. “Yeah?”

Thomas says, “I know you’re not supposed to say this, but I’m really glad we broke up.” 

The line cracks and goes quiet, and for a moment Thomas thinks he really has lost her. Then her voice returns with a deep sigh, and she says, “_ Shit _, me too. You’re so damn annoying. Now please go away. Take a walk or something if you can’t sleep. Just leave me alone. Night.”

The radio clicks off. Thomas laughs quietly to himself. 

_ A walk _ , he thinks. _ Maybe that’s what I need _.

– 

Sneaking out of the house is shamefully easy. 

The stars are bright and beautiful above his head, and Thomas imagines each of them playing a soft piano tune for him as he walks. 

The last bus to Salvation sits at the bay when he approaches. The carriage is empty, bright yellow light and open doors welcoming him inside. It has been waiting for him, Thomas decides, and steps inside the carriage moments before the doors close, and the bus takes off. 

Thomas sits sideways on a bench, feel up, turning the crystal around in his fingers, feeling content with its weight in his hands.

The train stills and jerks and turns and speeds and before Thomas knows it, it is pulling to a complete stop at Salvation station and then, with a blur of movement during which time bends and shifts around him as if he and it exist on separate planes of reality, Thomas finds himself on the beach, staring at the inky black waves. The imperfection in the sector wall stares at him, a pillar as grand as the ice spikes behind it.

_ What do you think it is? _ Teresa’s voice asks him, and Thomas thinks, _ A tear in the fabric of space and time. _

Cool air hits his skin but Thomas does not shiver despite forgetting to bring a jacket. He spends some time watching the waves hit the sand and crash into seafoam bubbles that hiss when they pop and kiss the toes of Thomas’ shoes where he stands. 

He doesn’t take the shoes off when he walks forward into the water. The waves lap at his body and send shivers down his spine when he is waist-deep, and the water slipping under his shirt is like ice. Soon the waves are around his neck and Thomas is treading water, legs kicking wildly beneath him and arms pulling him forward in the water when the current begins to pick up. The water crashing against his body grows stronger and it becomes harder to control which way he is moving, until soon enough Thomas loses control altogether. 

Thomas blinks and spits water out of his mouth, arms flapping and legs kicking to keep him upright until one large wave crashes over his head and fully submerges him below the surface. Thomas puls himself back up only for the action to be repeated as soon as he does, and Thomas cries out as the waves crash into him again, and again, and again, sending him further out into the black sea. 

His lungs burn inside his chest and Thomas struggles to breathe. The imperfection glitters and flashes and waves crash and send him under, and Thomas pops up, and they send him under and up, under and up, and hysterically, he thinks, _ I’m going to hit the edge of the sector. I’m going to be crushed against the edge of the sector. I’m going to be spat out into space. _

His lungs burn. 

They burn.

They burn.

Thomas pushes up above the waves, gasping a loud, inhuman like sound that is ripped straight from his chest. 

A boat horn drowns out his cries, and Thomas is bathed in a cool, white light. Someone shouts, “_ Catch! _” moments before something large and round hits him in the head, which he makes out to be a life preserver through blurry eyes. 

Thomas claws at the ring until he has it tight against his chest, and holds on as the man in the boat pulls him in. Rough hands grip his shoulders and hoist him over the brim like he weighs practically nothing, and when Thomas hits the surface of the boat he proceeds to cough up all the spare water that wound up in his lungs. The man tosses a thick blanket over him and swears. 

Once Thomas has recovered and his vision has returned to normal, he notices that he is on what appears to be a medium-sized metal fishing boat, one with a net hanging off the back and a wheel at the front. The man who saved his life says, “Well congratulations, kid. You’ve successfully scared all the fucking fish away.” 

Thomas splutters. “_ Lawrence? _” 

Lawrence spreads his arms outwards like a magician bowing at the end of a performance. “The one and only. That was one stunt you pulled. I was setting Bertha up when I saw you walk into the ocean like a half-brained, suicidal barnacle, and have but one thing to ask.” He leans forward on his knees. Thomas’ chest is heaving. "There are a lot of easier ways to kill yourself," Lawrence says, “You couldn’t have thought of something … calmer?”

"No, I –” Thomas coughs, saltwater spitting out of his mouth. “I wasn’t trying to – I wanted to make it stop." 

Lawrence gives him an odd yet patient look. He does not ask what it is that Thomas wanted to make stop, but only, "And did it?" 

The question settles dormant in the air as Thomas sags against the side of the boat.

For the last handful of years, Thomas has been living with what felt like another person under his skin – twisting his organs and pulling at his bones, telling him how to move and how to think and how to feel. But now, for the first time, that feeling is gone. 

_ Really _ gone. 

Thomas takes a deep breath: his lungs are clear. 

"Yeah,” he breathes, wiping cold hair out of his eyes, “It did." 

The boat rocks with the motion of the waves, calmer now. 

“Well. Good for you, then. Proud of you, or whatever,” Lawrence says, and picks up a small trout from a large bucket. It flaps around in his grasp, panicked. “Look at this thing. Traumatised! Fuckin’ guppy. Small as shit. What are ‘ya, ten pounds? _ Bah _.”

Lawrence over arms the fish back into the ocean. Thomas watches it soar through the air, freedom in its merciful grasp, before it lands back in the water with a _ plop! _

“There she goes,” Lawrence mutters, staring at the waves wistfully. “Hm. What do you think they do with all the males? There has to be some of them around.” 

“There are no males,” Thomas says, sniffing while he pulls the itchy grey blanket tighter around his shoulders. 

Lawrence hums, indifferent. 

“What are you doing out here?”

“I work out here,” Lawrence says. The vine tattoos stretch on his face when he smiles, wide and toothy. “I’m a fisherman, now.”

“That’s amazing!”

“Eh, it’s something to do. Oh, hey,” Lawrence points to Thomas’ left hip, “You got somethin’ falling out there.”

The boat tilts and the crystal rolls out of his pocket and on to the metal floor. Floundering, Thomas leaps forward to catch it before it can disappear under the engine. Upon feeling the familiar cool, smooth surface against the palm of his hand he sighs, pressing the crystal close to his mouth as his entire body sags in relief. 

Lawrence is staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. Thomas slowly lowers the crystal away from his face and hunches his shoulders, self-conscious. “What?” 

“Is that … where did you get a moon stone?” 

Thomas’ eyebrows pinch in confusion. “A what?” 

“A moon stone,” Lawrence repeats. “I haven’t seen one of them in years. Where’d you find it?”

“In the woods up on the mountain the night of the meteor shower,” Thomas answers. Thinking about that night, about the small cluster of strange objects in the middle of the words, feels worlds away, like it happened years ago and not weeks. 

Lawrence nods. Slowly, he reaches a hand out and asks, “May I?”

After only a brief hesitation, Thomas hands over the crystal – _ moon stone _. Lawrence holds it in both hands despite I being smaller than his thumb, and like it is made of fragile glass instead of solid stone. “Beautiful,” he whispers to himself, “Just amazing. And the other one?” 

Thomas starts. “What?”

“Well, they always come in pairs. It’s how they work. You can’t just pick one up and go, you have to activate them.”

“Uh.” Thomas scratches his nose, “We found them in the woods. There was a ton of them just lying there.”

Lawrence hums. His eyes remain fixed on the silver swirling beneath the hard shell, lit up with a kind of wonder and awe that Thomas has never seen in him since that day in the museum when he spoke about oceans and magma of Europa. 

He eyes the molten silver with increased judgment and looks up at Thomas more so.

“Who has the other one?”

Thomas bristles. “My … friend Newt.” 

Lawrence nods slowly, eyes the crystal once more, and finally hands it back to Thomas, saying, “I suggest you give him a call. Doesn’t look like he’s doing so hot.”

“What? Why? What makes you say that?”

Lawrence points to the stone. “The colour. Grey is –” he waves a hand vaguely in the air, “not good. He’s upset. Do you know what about?”

“Newt’s –?” Thomas stares between Lawrence, the crystal, and then back at Lawrence, deeply troubled. “Newt’s upset?”

“When you activate the crystals,” Lawrence says, quickly miming pressing two things together with his hands, and Thomas’ memory flashes back to Newt clinking his and Thomas’ crystals together, “It gives you insight as to how the other person is feeling. The colours mean different things.”

Thomas feels light-headed. 

“How do you know so much about these things?” 

Lawrence stares out over the ocean, and says, “Rose and I had our own, once. Used to carry them around with us everywhere. Never felt right if I didn’t have mine in my pocket.” 

Thomas stares down at the stone clutched tight in his hands, and understands completely. 

For weeks Thomas has felt a strange connection to this tiny, crystalline object; felt safe when it was near and comforted when he held it close to his chest, or pressed it against his cheeks and lips, and devastated for the few days he’d thought he lost it for good. Feeling attached to objects is not uncommon however Thomas never questioned the strength of the attachment he had to this stone until this very moment, until he watched Lawrence gaze at it with such familiarity, his eyes lit up with immense longing, that the epiphany truly came to light. 

This crystal has been letting Thomas know exactly how Newt has been feeling for the past two and a half weeks; when he was happy or sad or anxious or excited, the crystal told him all. And, he supposes, vice versa.

He wonders if Newt knows, wonders if he’s figured it out. It would be very like him to do so. 

But Lawrence says grey is not good. Grey means upset. 

Newt is upset. 

Thomas thinks he knows why. 

The boat reaches the shore just as the sun is beginning to creep above the horizon. As he steers them towards the peer, Lawrence says, “End of the line, kid. Thank you for travelling aboard the _ Angler Dangler _ – yes that’s it’s fuckin’ name, ain’t she a beaut. Please exit on the left and take all your shit with you.”

When Thomas hooks his legs less than gracefully over the side of the boat to swing himself over onto the peer, Lawrence grabs his arm, drawing his attention back. 

“Hey,” he says, “Make it right. Okay?”

The crystal glows brighter for a moment, shining through the small gaps between Thomas’ fingers like it knows. 

Thomas tells Lawrence, “I promise,” and after, when he is watching Lawrence drive back out on the waves, with the sun slowly beginning to creep over the horizon and bathe the ocean in sleepy hues of blue and pink, he decides he will. 

Newt answers the door ready to curse out whoever is on the other side and banging on it like a lunatic at the ass-crack of dawn. He wears a sweater with the sleeves pushed up his forearms and his hair is hanging loose around his face, curing delicately below his chin. 

He is easily the most gorgeous thing Thomas has ever laid his eyes on. 

When his eyes take in Thomas standing on his doorstep in the early hours of the morning, hair damp and clothes looking like he’d swum in and out of a flash flood, Newt looks like he is not quite sure what he is seeing, expression struggling to hold neutral insouciance in the corners of his lips. 

“Hi,” Thomas begins, the word coming out like air. 

Newt’s arms cross over his chest, fingers toying with the fabric of his sleeve. “Hi?”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, “I’m sorry I disappeared. Things got kind of crazy.”

“It’s okay,” Newt mumbles, massaging his temple. “I figured you wouldn’t have had your phone with you, anyway. How are you here now?” 

“I snuck out,” Thomas says.

“Fuck sake, Thomas,” Newt groans. “They’re going to lock you in the basement, you know that, right?” 

“Probably,” Thomas says, “But it’ll be worth it.” 

Without waiting any longer, Thomas bridges the gap between them and cups Newt’s face in his hands, and kisses him until every last bit of the world slips away. 

_

The summer carries on like this:

Days grow longer and hotter and sometimes it can be unbearable, but with the wind in his hair and his arms wrapped tight around Newt’s waist, clinging to him on the back of the bike as Newt drives them down the highway towards Salvation, it is perfect. When Thomas tips his head back, eyes closed, smiling to the sky, and the air tastes sweet on his tongue like bubble gum cotton candy, he truly feels the happiest. 

It is like that whenever he is with Newt; when they’re driving or in bed or walking hand in hand down the strip; cotton candy kisses. Thomas has been starving for so long. 

Thomas is excited to discover a new favourite pass time, as well, which is getting Newt flat on his back and tracing a finger down from the bridge of his nose to his lips, to his chin, to his neck and along his collarbone and watch as the colours of the moon stone change and grow in intensity. 

(When Newt tips his head back, eyes shut, lips parted, and gasps softly when Thomas gets a hand around his cock, the colours in the crystal turn a vibrant, deep violet. It is then that Thomas will lean over and whisper, “I knew it,” into his ear, and Newt would swear and reach up and grip his hair tight, and bring their lips together to shut him up.) 

Thomas has fun at his own birthday party, which is an _ astronomical success _ (his mother’s words, not his). 

He has a good night, sipping champagne and sitting around in a circle with all of his friends, Newt tucked against his side, fingers laced behind their backs. Ben takes it upon himself to whoop loudly whenever they kiss, which is often, which he commits to with a hundred percent energy long after it becomes annoying. 

Thomas’ punishment extends on from that night for three more weeks; the extent of the time his parents were away to make up for everything, which is only fair. He loses his phone for most of the duration of the rain checked grounding and more than definitely sends Teresa into an early grave by dictating texts for Newt to her to send via proxy. Which she agreed to, in the first place, and any second-hand embarrassment was entirely forewarned. 

When the three weeks are up the first thing Thomas does is text Newt to pick him up, and sure enough, ten minutes later, the sound of a motorbike engine reaches his ears, and he smiles.

Minho kisses Gally in front of everyone for the first time at the diner. It is very casual, almost an after-thought on his way out of the booth. No one bats more than an eye, really, but the poor boy looks so stunned for a moment Thomas is convinced he’d turned to stone. It’s entirely ridiculous, given the way they presented themselves; alone, just the two of them in a booth with none of their other friends anywhere in the vicinity, eating ice cream and drinking milkshakes and speaking in low, hushed voices they thought no one could hear and trying to make the other laugh. 

Platonically, yes, 1,000%. 

Thomas gives Minho his milkshake and Sonya pops two straws in it like he asked (_ two straws _) and Thomas waggles his eyebrows at Gally suggestively while Sonya makes exaggerated kissy faces when Minho’s back is turned.

Ben and Rachel are getting married in the springtime (not really, but there is a poll going on how long it will take them to elope). 

Harriet and Sonya and Aris officially become _ Harriet and Sonya and Aris, _much to Newt’s discontentment despite the fact that he was the one who literally instigated it. Thomas just supposes it must be trifling to now have to be intimidating to not one but two of your baby sister’s partners. 

(Aris is already a little terrified of him however he will never admit it, and Newt is just kidding himself with Harriet, to be completely honest.)

Thomas runs into Mary when she is on a coffee date with a man who looks far too familiar for Thomas’ liking. Mary is pleased to see him, her face breaking out into its usual beaming smile that makes Thomas think of warm meadows and springtime. She tells him she is happy to see him on his feet and that he looks better and, “Oh, how rude of me. Thomas, this is Vince.” 

When Vince nods Thomas imagines him tipping an invisible hat, and when he says, “Hey, kid. How’s the head?” Thomas almost faints. 

“You’re the –” Is all Thomas manages to stutter out before Vince leans back in his chair, eyes lit up with amusement, and finishes his sentence for him, “The owner of The Sleepy Stag bar, yes.” 

“Did you say owner?”

Vince’s mouth spasms into a hint of a smirk. “That is what I said, yes. Hi. Nice to meet you, Thomas? Was it?” 

Thomas nods, stiff and stunned out of words, and Mary appears far too gleeful as she sips her cappuccino. 

They are in town on a bright sunny Tuesday when they find Nina at her usual station outside the mall, except now with every cup of lemonade you receive a flyer on the negative effects of rewinding therapy – the mild to the extreme. Thomas’ blood instantly grows cold when he reads the bold words printed on the piece of paper and then up at Nina, who is pouring lemonades for Newt, Minho, and Gally with her usual blank and nonaligned expression. 

He asks her, “Hey, Nina, what are you saving up for with all these lemonade stalls?”

She answers while she squeezes a lemon into a cup with her bare hands, her voice the same, almost bored tone, “A lawyer.” 

Two weeks later every news outlet across the four moons has temporarily forgotten around Monica Kelly and her baby due any day in lieu of the girl who is taking her own parents to court for the right to discontinue the rewinding therapy on her own body. This causes a massive uproar for days on end where news anchors and talk show hosts and bloggers on the internet share their options on the subject, and after a week it is conclusive that the majority of the public stand behind Nina. 

The court battle lasts all of a week, and Nina comes out of it victorious. Thomas joins her and Lawrence for one last game of chess in the alcove outside the mall the day before she is due to leave for Io, where she will be living out the remainder of her teenagers years under the guardianship of an estranged aunt. 

After the game is done she stands, dusts the dirt off her dress and hugs each of them tight. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen,” Nina says, before tightening her bow and turning around and leaving, her ponytail swinging in her stride. 

“I’m really goin’a miss that girl,” Lawrence says, sniffing as he packs up the chessboard. 

A week later Lawrence receives a package addressed to _ The Alcove At the Mall, Sector C, Callisto _and when he opens it all he finds are dozens upon dozens of pure, scarlet red roses picked from the deep valleys of Io. 

On the third last week of summer, Monica Kelly gives birth to a perfectly healthy baby boy – 8 pounds, 13 ounces – whom they name Charles but affectionately refer to as Chuck in interviews. This chubby, tiny baby who can barely open his eyes’ face, along with his parents’ faces, are slapped across every single magazine, newspaper, and online article known to man. 

On Thursday the mayor calls for a gathering in the main square on behalf of Ms. Paige, where she will greet the baby for the first time. Thousands have turned up for the event, from Callisto to the other three moons. 

The woman has aged impossibly since the last time Thomas saw her at the Gala, yet she walks up on stage by her own will just the same. As she did at the ball, Ms. Paige gently grips both Monica and James’ hands before turning her attention to baby Chuck. The crowd, as large as it may be, is deathly quiet when she bends down to first touch the cheek of the sleeping baby, as gentle as if he were a flower, before leaning down to place a kiss on his tiny forehead. 

The crowd cheers wildly. 

The future is here. 

Ava Paige, founder of The Callisto Project, the Saviour of the Human Race, passes away peacefully in her sleep the following morning. 

The whole of the four moons feels it, and the sombre air lingers for weeks as the sectors grieve her loss. 

Her last words before she retired to bed all by herself, as reported by one of her nurses, was, “I can rest now.” 

“I have something to tell you,” Newt says to Thomas a week before summer ends. They have ridden up the mountain to the clearing where they watched the meteor shower that night so long ago. They sit straddling Newt’s bike and watch the sunset as it paints the sky neon hues, Ganymede and Europa bathed in pink and purple. 

Thomas feels too warm and comfortable to move with Newt pressed against his back, his chin resting on Thomas’ shoulder, the gentle breeze blowing strands of Newt’s hair that tickle his cheek and nose, so instead he remains exactly where he is and asks, “What is it?” 

“I called the medical program on Ganymede this morning.”

Thomas’ heart stutters behind his ribs, and he tries not to react to the words all too much. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Newt says, kissing the side of Thomas’ neck, and then, “I pulled my application.” 

Thomas’ heart full-on _ stops _.

Now he turns, twisting in Newt’s arms so fast Newt nearly falls off the bike. “What?” 

“I called them,” Newt begins. 

“Yes?”

“And formally retracted my application. Put it in writing, too,” he finishes, with a grin that feels out of place with the miniature storm that is currently brewing inside Thomas’ chest. “It wasn’t what I wanted to do, it’s what my dad wanted me to do. And I decided …” 

Newt trails off, and Thomas waits on stuttered breath for him to continue. 

He does not for a moment but pauses to reach up and brush the back of his fingers against Thomas’ jaw, as soft as a feather, so soft that his touch sends electricity down Thomas’ spine, and curls his toes. His eyes are lidded and his lips are ever slightly parted, and perfect, and beautiful, and Thomas thinks, _ Wow, I love him so much _. 

Newt cups his cheek and brings him closer until their foreheads are pressed together. Newt brushes the tip of his nose against Thomas’ and sighs, “I decided it wasn’t worth it.” 

“Newt …”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else, Tommy. I want to be right here with you until the end.” Newt kisses the soft skin beneath Thomas’ eye, and Thomas feels something inside of him snap free. 

Thomas breathes in deeply through his nose, smelling pine and Newt’s cologne, as dizzying as ever now that he finally has Newt so close to him; now that he finally has _ Newt _. 

Thomas huffs into a smile, and says, “Always, huh?”

“Always.”

Thomas does not have to wonder what colour the crystal is. He already knows. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chart, for reference:
> 
> Amber: Nervous, unhappy, cool, puzzled
> 
> Green: Average, calm
> 
> Blue: Emotions are charged, active, relaxed
> 
> Dark Blue / Violet: Passionate, Hot, Excited, very happy
> 
> Gray: Strained, anxious
> 
> Black - Stressed, Cold, Uptight, Tense 
> 
> Red - Energized, Restless, Distracted 
> 
> Newt rewrites and resubmits his application to the biochemistry section at WCKD2 after some encouragement, and recieves a positive responce in return. 
> 
> A few notes for context that didn't quite make it into the fic that I felt like I should mention here:
> 
> 1\. The legal age for drinking in this idealistic futuristic society is only 16, which is why Thomas was able to just casually announce his and Sonya's ages in the bar. Remember these guys are humans but, like, Advanced.  
2\. There is no University or higher education. You learn your shit in school and then go work. Que será.  
3\. You probably caught on but in case I didn't make it obvious enough; all animals in this world are female. Lack of biological reproduction _might_ extend to animals or it might not, but either way WCKD2 doesn't really want to take the chance.  
4\. Newtmas are #soulmates bye.
> 
> The _Clair De Lune_ fading into _Dream a Little Dream of Me_ is a real song that actually exists and I could not believe how perfect it was when I first stumbled across it, as both songs featured so heavily in the writing process (i.e. I listened to the two of them on loop for countless hours while dissociating and dreaming that I lived on a moon and was having my own summer romance. Alas.) 
> 
> I will link the song [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WBezGDMzNjA). Enjoy!
> 
> Part 1 of this series is over however our boys' stories are not. Cont. in part 2 below. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://singt0me.tumblr.com/).


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